


Hozyian

by guestwho



Series: Hozyain [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bottom Dean, Bottom Dean Winchester/Top Sam Winchester, Dean's Real Name is Dimitri, Italian Language, Italian Mafia, Italian Sammy, M/M, Mafia AU, Neither of them are "Winchesters", Russian Dean, Russian Mafia, Step-Brothers, Top Sam, Unrelated Winchesters, different last names, russian language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-07
Updated: 2016-03-07
Packaged: 2018-05-25 05:55:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6183133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/guestwho/pseuds/guestwho
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sammy Vincetti's world is spun on its axis when his father, don of the local Italian mafia, decides to adopt an orphaned boy belonging to the rival Russian mafia in order to make peace between the two families. Dimitri "Dean" Ivanov, a quiet, curious boy with broken English, doesn't understand why Sammy hates him so much - nor why he enjoys the attention so much either.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hozyian

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally just a non-fanfic smut story, but I decided that since I had based the characters off of Jared and Jensen that I'd make it into a fanfic AU and put it up here for the fandom. Sam and Dean aren't related in this, nor is the name Winchester mentioned anywhere, and any elements of Supernatural the show are not applied in this story. This is just a plain old fashioned boy-on-boy story using the names of Sam and Dean. 
> 
> Also, there is a heavy amount of racist slurs used in this story, and I want to note beforehand that I do not mean to cause any offense to Russians or Italians AT ALL. These slurs are only used to help characterize Sammy's complete lack of respect towards anyone, especially Russians. Again, nothing written here is meant to genuinely cause hurt or disrespect. 
> 
> Any questions or complaints let me know and I will do my best to fix things. 
> 
> Lastly, I only used google translate and advice from people in my daily life to write the Russian/Italian dialogue, I apologize if it's totally botched!
> 
> *Also I just made a Twitter in case anyone wants to follow for story updates! it's new, but I plan on using it often soon: https://twitter.com/ guestwho

“You won’t get a piece of my family’s money. Y’hear me?” Sammy snarls, breath hot against the seventeen year old’s face. “You think they’re smitten by your little play-dumb act, like you’re not actually after the Vincetti bank. Guess what? They’re not, Drago. They only took in your stray ass so they could buy out the K shipment that’s being moved through Little Russia. If anything, your Marksimov buddies practically sold you to us for our money. Probably wasn’t even that much.”

Dimitri’s eyes remain nailed to the floor, an audible swallow to his throat. Sammy sneers at the possum act, astounded by the kid’s cowardice. He wonders how far he can push him. 

“Gimme the keys.” 

Dimitri glances up at him worriedly then. The keys his father gave him to that new Benz outside are clutched tenderly, almost too-tightly in his hand. He’s probably never even had a real car before. Probably doesn't even know how to drive it. All the more reason for Sammy to take it. His eyes harden at the Russian, blackly. 

“Give it to me, Dee.”  
His hand moves slowly then, offering up the silvery keys. Sam snatches them away in his fist, snarl twitching. 

“From now on you don’t get a thing in this house, unless it goes through me first. I don’t care who it’s from, or what it is; a present, clothes, groceries, letters, a fucking phone call – I don’t care. You think you have freedom here? You don’t. Now on you belong to me, Pinko.” He leans in close, and the look on Dimitri’s face is one of growing distaste. “You answer to me. Everything I tell you, you do. No questions asked. Capische?”

Dimitri looks up at him with furious wet eyes. “You can’t just –” 

“You’d be surprised at what I ken and ken’t do, Mudak.” 

The boy glares, hard. “You are not your father.”

“Not yet.” The heir smiles, sharply. Dimitri says nothing to that, mouth caught in a thin, hateful line. Sammy’s mission feels complete then, especially when the Russian’s gaze returns to the floor. He gets his mouth right up against Dimitri’s ear, and hisses.

“Imparare a piacermi, puttana.” 

He jingles the Benz keys musically, and walks away with a deep sense of contentment.

Later that week. 

“You said you wanted to be a part of this family, ah? So do it.” His father’s voice comes, lyrical tilt of his Sicilian accent sounding like nothing but mockery to Sammy’s ears. 

“Inventory is for grunts, I’m your son.” He seethes. “I should be learning real tools of the trade, not how to count!”

“First of all, we never talk about the boys that way. They never respect you that way. Secondo, you need to brush up on your counting skills anyways. You hardly passed algebra in school; I had to pay off your teacher in junior year.”

“That was because she knew you’d pay her if she threatened to fail me!” 

“Zitto. I’ll hear none of it. You want in this business? You take inventory. Capische?”

Sammy didn’t get back from the warehouse until hours later. By the time his Maserati was peeling into the driveway of the Vincetti estate, the moon was hanging bright in the sky, and his mother had Pavarotti playing softly while she danced around the kitchen in her apron, cleaning up after dinner. She wasn’t Italian – she was a full-blooded Pennsylvanian, but Sammy thought she embraced the Vincetti heritage much more than any actual Vincetti, to an irritatingly fervid point. He’d only walked in when he saw her tucking away the last of tonight’s carbonara into the fridge, and although he’d gotten drive-thru on the way home, his heart still churned with indignation at the thought of his family sharing his favorite dish with that mutt. 

“Hey there, handsome.” She grins, hip-checking the fridge shut. “How was work?”

“Don’t even.” He snorts, storming past her – until his eyes fall on a decorative plaque on the table, shining as if it were brand new. He immediately stops. “What’s that?” She peers over from behind the kitchen island. “Oh, that? Your brother Dean got that today from school. Apparently he’s been really impressing the Mathletes. Isn’t it great?”  


Fury unfurls itself tight in Sammy’s chest, red hot like a young volcano. The bastard’s name is etched across the marble in golden filigree, as if he was some sort of royalty for being able to divide shit up by its square root. Meanwhile, Sammy was stuck counting baggies in a warehouse for five hours. He was livid.

“His name’s Dimitri. And he’s not my brother.” He snarls before zooming up the steps to the mutt’s bedroom, vision made entirely of red. His mother simply sighs, turning up her Pavarotti. 

Sammy kicks open Dimitri’s door and the Russian’s body lurches upwards into the sitting position on his bed, the tablet in his lap becoming smushed against his chest when his back hits the wall in the attempt to scoot away from a boiling Sammy. The hot-head locks the door behind him, and turns to Dimitri with flared nostrils.

“What are you doing?” The boy eyes him warily, though it sounds more like ‘vat’. 

“Shut the fuck up, Sputnik. What the fuck did I say about you getting presents, huh?” He stalks over to his bed in slow, angry steps. “When the fuck did I say it was okay for you to get a trophy?” 

Shame dawns on Dimitri’s face, and his gaze hits the floor. “I-I did not – they gave it to me; is gift. I could not refuse.”

“You think that’s cute?” He settles a knee on the bed in front of the uneasy boy, leaning over him and birthing a shadow from the reading lamp on the desk. “You think that makes you smart, bringing home a little paper-weight like that from your stupid math club? Yeah? How come you can add two plus two just fine but when a fucking waiter asks for your order you gotta write it down first and then say it? It’s really simple, all you gotta do is look up and say ‘Gnocchi’. It’s not rocket science, cretino.” 

Dimitri flushes, and speaks very slowly – as if that would make him any more coherent. 

“Is different in Rossiya.”

“Oh what, you don’t got restaurants in Mother Russia? Wait I forgot – you probably don’t.” Sammy bites with a mirthless chuckle. “What you guys do, boil a potato and call it gourmet?” 

He looks away, hugging his IPod tablet quietly. Sammy swallows, anger heaping even more so at the hurt face in front of him. How dare he. 

“The fuck are you doing awake anyways, it’s almost eleven. Don’t you have a curfew?”

“Homework.” The boy blurts. Sammy’s eyes narrow at the way his gaze bobs up at him, nervously. 

“Homework. At eleven.” Sammy parrots in disbelief. The boy always finished his homework right after school. Nerd. “What are you looking at on there? Math porn? Rehearsing your multiples?” He grabs at the tablet. Dimitri dodges his lunge, eyes widening in terror. Sammy’s voice turns cold. “Let me see.”

He yanks the tablet away from Dimitri’s death grip then, and stills at what he finds on it. The Russian wraps his arms around his knees, pressed to his chest tightly. His face is burning.

Sammy lets out a hollow laugh, a huff of air. “That’s fucking disgusting.”

“I-I –”

“My father bought this for you. He spent over a hundred dollars on it, and you’re using it for this?” 

He holds up the paused frame of some busty blonde’s fake-ass tits, frozen in the motion coming from some faceless dude’s meat-rod drilling her a new asshole. It’s like he was trying to plow a tunnel to China. Through her ass. 

Dimitri can’t even look at it. His chest heaves in quickening breaths, as if he was about to have an attack. “I am sorry.”

“That’s fucking disgusting, Dimitri.” Sammy knees his way closer to the boy so he can shove the tablet up in his face, his voice pitched low and snarling. “You watch this every night, huh? This how you get your kicks?”

“Please,” He turns his head, miserably.

“You like American girls, Dimitri? You like watching them take it like sluts, like it when they have big tits? Yeah?” He grabs the boy’s jaw, forcing it frontwards. “Answer me.”

Dimitri swallows, thickly. “I-I do not know.”

Sammy huffs. “The fuck’s that supposed to mean? You either like ‘em or you don’t, it’s not an equation, dicksmack.” 

“I don’t know, I –” He keeps his grip firm on Dimitri’s jaw when he tries to wriggle away. “Maybe.” 

“Maybe?” The elder laughs, delighted at the other’s reluctance. “You’re so full of shit, you know that?”

He shoves Dimitri’s face away. The Russian’s eyes are wet now, and he keeps them pinned to his desk lamp, muscle visibly tensing in his jaw when he swallows again. Sammy looks back at the tablet, gaze impenetrable for a moment, before turning back to the boy. 

He presses play. 

Dimitri’s body jolts at the noise of porn cutting through the silence; nothing but dirty, loud moans and filthy male grunts. He looks up at Sammy with eyes begging him to stop.

“Touch yourself.” Sammy says instead. Dimitri’s gaze explodes.

“What?”

“What I just said, Red.” He says, voice void of any mirth. When Dimitri doesn’t make any move to do so, he adds “Or I could take this downstairs. Put it right next to that new math trophy of yours. Yeah?”

He still doesn’t move, but his chest heaves quicker. “I will not.” 

Sammy leans an arm on the headboard and presses the tablet in closer, impossible for Dimitri to ignore. When the Russian looks up and finds no chance of reprieve in the heir’s hard, resolute face, he begs “Please.”

He’s silent for a moment. “C’mon, Dee. You like tits, right?”

Dimitri shakes his head at the covers, fist balled up in the fabric hotly. The porn star’s voice is suffocating the two of them, making the air seem so tense around them that he almost finds it hard to breathe. Sammy can’t believe the shitty quality of the video – there’s a corny 80’s soundtrack backing it. How could anyone get off with Bon Jovi in the background? Vaguely, he wonders if Dimitri even understands the words. 

Then, the Russian’s knees slip apart; a hesitant parting. His chest is puffing deeply, a slow rhythm while his eyes remain on the covers – as if Sammy weren’t there at all. He’s red all over – and when his hand inches down his stomach to his zipper, his throat bobs. Sammy is silent as the grave, watching it crawl helplessly lower, until he’s fully palming the front of his pants. The air suddenly clings, static-fizzy all at once. 

“Look at it.” Sammy orders, lowly. “Watch the video.”

Dimitri turns his gaze to the tablet, eyes glistening. It’s a horribly amateur shot of just genitals, the guy going balls deep into the blonde’s ass like it he was having some sort of muscle spasm, and at first Dimitri flinches at it – before all heat rushes to his groin, body picking up right where he left off before Sammy burst in. He shifts, uncomfortable under another male gaze, but keeps his palm flat against his pants. 

“Keep going.”

His head tilts back against the headboard, swallowing. He wants to close his eyes, pretend he’s surrounded by nothing, but he knows that wouldn’t last a second under the Sammy’s gaze. He keeps watching, sensations creeping into his nerves. The phantom pleasure of what a real woman feels like touches his body – he’s never been with one. As he listens to her keen, he imagines what it’s like; pressing into another, feeling her drip.  


His grip tightens, hardness suddenly there in his hand. Warm and firm, he rubs at it over his jeans, heart feeling like an alarm. His knees slide further apart, and Sammy can see the thick length of his cock against his thigh. Not bad, he thinks distantly.  


Dimitri’s back arches just slightly, pumping his hips faintly into his hand with a shaky breath, lashes fluttering. He rubs and squeezes at his cock, exhaling like a shudder. 

“Go under your pants.”

“You said just touch.” Dimitri doesn’t stop. 

“Go under.” He repeats, like a shrug, weight hidden in his voice. It doesn’t seem like he’s going to at first, but then his unoccupied hand is pulling apart his pants button, undoing the zipper. Sammy can smell something heady there, but doesn’t move from his spot. 

“Under your boxers too.” 

Dimitri looks frightened now. He stares past the tablet at Sammy unsurely, and then his hand slips under both layers. Sammy’s skin lights up at the situation, feeling like he’s taken one step too far into hot water. 

“Keep going.”

Dimitri swallows again, and Sammy can practically see the moment his hand touches his bare cock – the way his whole face shutters like a camera, hesitantly. His wrist starts moving, slow up and down motions under his clothes. Dimitri blinks in a flutter and then his gaze is on his own hand, flush high on his cheeks. Letting out a harsh pant, wet sounding.

“Look at the video.” Sammy orders.

“I don’t like that one.” Dimitri’s gaze returns to him, hand steady. 

Sammy’s authority feels challenged. “I wasn’t asking.”

He doesn’t reply. His movements quicken, and Sammy can definitely smell something now – the fat smell of sex. Dimitri looks at the video as if it suddenly meant nothing, jacking himself like he didn’t even need it. There’s a soft slapping sound that hits Sammy’s ears like tongue up his spine, and Dimitri starts panting, head lolling back against the headboard. His hips start to squirm, and when his back arches out even further they pump up into his fist, air gushing past his lips in uneven bursts. His eyes dance up at Sammy again, face heating up with red. 

“Take it out.” His voice comes. 

Dimitri’s brow creases in desperation, eyes flaring in disbelief at the heir. Sammy thinks he’s going to argue, or even stop, but instead his pants are being tugged down from his waist, boxers in quick tow – and his cock is springing free, one hand still wrapped around it as if it wasn’t allowed to leave. His skin is all smooth, only a thatch of blond hair below his naval. His face is red hot, chest pumping, gaze trapped in a cage of terror and indignation. He doesn’t wait for Sammy to tell him what to do – he just keeps fisting himself, slower than before. Sammy feels stuck in time, watching a loop of some guy’s bony fingers tug at his hard flushed cock with slick, skin sounds. 

They get faster the longer Dimitri keeps his eyes averted, knees gradually splaying open in front of Sammy. The tablet is slowly drifting to the covers – he’s pretty sure the video’s almost over by now.  


His hips pump up again, the movement more obvious now that Sammy’s got a full view, and he observes soundlessly as they make a circle in the air, thrusting into his fist. Sammy never did that with himself – with girls maybe. Come to think of it, Sammy really didn’t do this to himself that often. He wasn’t bad looking; he had plenty of volunteers in the sex department. In fact he’d gathered quite a reputation for hitting it and quitting it, naturally. Sammy wasn’t sad at all to admit that most of his relationships were the kinds that started with a one-liner and ended with a taxi cab in the morning. He’d still rub one out as much as the next guy, but – never quite like this. 

“Open your eyes.” 

Dimitri looks up again, eyelids having dropped at one point. He’s tugging at himself in blurry motions now, slapping quick and frantic. His mouth hangs open, lips blown hot pink.  
“Are you close?”

“Da,” His breaths are tight, constricted. 

“Say it in English.” 

“Pochemu ty tak so mnoy?” He spills, and his hips pump up again. A sound is caught in his throat – a swallowed down whimper. 

“English.” Sammy commands.

“Yes.” He pants. “Blizkiy.”

Sammy stares at his hands, how one travels down to rub at his smooth balls, fingertips disappearing under the darkness of his strained boxer briefs. He pants out of his wide open mouth, eyes snapping shut once more under the stress of his eyebrows, pleadingly furrowed. The tablet is forgotten on the bed spread now, Sammy’s forearm resting on the thick headboard so he looks down at Dimitri idly. His belt isn’t too far from the Russian’s face – a few inches further and he could feel the hot breath there, rushing. 

“Look at me.” 

Dimitri’s eyes snap open, and he looks overwhelmed. Sammy swallows.

“Say my name.”

“Blizkiy.” He shakes his head. Sammy reaches down and grabs his jaw again, firmly – “Sammy.” He hiccups. “Sammy – Semmi!"

His voice lurches up on a broken mispronunciation of his name and his whole body stiffens. White hits his knuckles, splashes against his stomach, and his jaw jerks free of Sammy’s grip, head tossing to the side with a released groan. He jacks himself through it, eyes tightly shut.  


Sammy stares down and realizes he’s incredibly hard. 

*

For every day that Sammy would slam the door behind him on his way to work, Dimitri would be gasping out his name that same night.

“I – I can’t, I need – Sammy.”

It became a routine fueled on anger, hate, and secrets. 

“Not yet.” Sammy says above him, settled on his knees between the Russian’s naked legs as he laid back on the fat leather sofa downstairs, the entire house quiet around them aside for the heavy, beaten breaths spilling from Dimitri’s mouth, sounding as if he was trying to push a boulder uphill.  


This has been his fourth try at coming, and Sammy’s fourth denial.  


His fist pulls at his pretty flushed dick with merciless slapping, hot sweat running down from his forehead to his neck skin, face doused exhausted pink while his boxers were tangled around his right ankle, his socked feet half-hanging off the couch. 

“Push your shirt up. All the way up.” Sammy orders. “Just don’t take it off.”

“Please, ya ne mogu tak bol'she. Let me – please.” The blond begs brokenly.

“Shirt.” He repeats, slowly. “Up.” 

Dimitri’s eyes flare blue at him, and Sammy feels it all the way down his spine and straight up his cock. Dimitri had become his quickest new power trip in a matter of days. It didn’t take more than a few seconds for the blond to obey him, bunching his shirt up around his collar bones dutifully to expose his tight rose nipples and chest; girly smooth but boyish tan. He lets his one hand rest on the rumpled fabric above his heart while the other keeps working his cock, standing tall and straight and wet with the precome his fingers slipped around. 

He stared down at it, brow crumpled and lip clamped tight between his teeth where soft, desperate whimpers broke through. 

“Touch your nipple, play with it.” Sammy’s got one hand grappling the couch’s spine and another on its arm; grip tight under the burn of his spurred spirit, growing bolder each second. Dimitri doesn’t talk back this time, just moves the fingers by his collar down to his left nipple and pinches it, rubs it between the length of his digits and swallows, hips pumping slowly. 

“Pochemu vy tak so mnoy?” He susurrates, staring up into the hard Italian’s face with fire in his cheeks, lashes wet. “Chto ya tebe sdelal?”

Sammy leans down and grips a handful of blond hair, moist and soft from sweat. He tugs it back so Dimitri’s face is wholly exposed to him, his lips parting in a shocked gasp. 

“We’re gonna train that backtalk out of you, aren’t we?” He says. “You’re gonna learn how to say every single ounce of shit-talk you have for me in English. You got that?” 

“Not shit talk,” He hisses, feeling the rough knees of Sammy’s jeans sidling up against his inner thighs, keeping him wide open. “Vy prosto ne ponyali by.”

“English, Red. English.” Sammy lets go of his hair roughly. Dimitri huffs a hot blow of air when his head falls back against the soft arm rest, and after a glaring moment he pauses his hand movements to lean up on his elbow and seethe into the darker boy’s face.

“I want to come.” 

Sammy holds his glare for a moment. His eyes slide down the Russian’s body, lingering on his nipples and flushed cock head. Then he settles on the shadowy trail below his tightened sac, a new plan dominating his mind. 

“Finger yourself.” He returns to Dimitri’s fierce gaze, disaffectedly. “And then you can come.”

The blond’s face pops with emotion. “What?”

“Finger yourself.” Sammy leans in, careful and clear. “Finger your ass.”

The Russian looks confused, still clutching his cock as if he was now protecting it.

“I...I can’t, do that. That’s – not for boys.” 

The older boy’s eyes glint and Dimitri’s spine laughs with ice, realizing the error of his words.

“Not for boys, huh?” He murmurs to him. “You think fingering’s not for boys, or asses aren’t for boys?” 

Dimitri’s hands leave his body to scoot himself further up on the couch, away from Sammy as the Italian leans forward. “That is not what I say. I just –”

“Keep touching yourself. I didn’t say stop.” He snipes. Dimitri stills, and with a hesitant lick to his lips, his hand returns to its previous motions. “Now answer the question. What isn’t for boys, Dee? Fingering, or ass?”

It was hard to answer anything like this. “The – the act.” He breathes, slowly. “It is not what boys do.”

“Yeah? You scared of not being a boy, Dee? You think fingering your ass will make you a girl – a little, slutty girl? Fingering herself for daddy?”  
Dimitri flinches at that, turning to look worriedly at the Persian living room rug. Sammy moves to lean both his forearms on the arm rest then, boxing in the Russian’s head.

“Is that what you’re into, Red? You like it when a girl has to come in front of her daddy, before he fucks her ass hard? You like it when they get ass-fucked, right?” 

He reaches down and pinches a nipple when Dimitri ignores him resolutely, and the Russian’s back snaps in an arch, yelping. 

“Answer me, Cossak. You like watching them get ass-fucked, don’t you?”

“Da, da. Yes.” He remembers to say it in English, and heats soars high in his face.

“Makes you come don’t it?” His nipple remains locked in his fingers, twisting just slightly. “You want to come, don’t you Dee?”

Dimitri nods frantically. 

“Then do it. Do it like a girl.” Sammy’s lips curl up one side. “Finger yourself.”

He looks up at the Italian uneasily, mouth parted and chest heaving under Sammy’s clenching fingers. Their hands almost touch from where his own rests above his heart, but it isn’t until the elder is reaching up and grasping Dimitri’s unoccupied palm firmly that they do. With an unhurried drag, Sammy brings the boy’s hand down; down his chest, past the light hairs of his navel, and finally past the throbbing heat of his cock until it was pressed flat along the crease of his ass, his fingertips pulsing against the tight, untouched entrance there. Dimitri swallows.

“Do it.” He removes his hand from atop Dimitri’s, leaving it alone below his sac. “And keep moving.” 

The blond’s fist returns to a steady pace while he chews on his bottom lip, eyes locked on his hesitant right hand. The pads of his fingers feel around the furled flesh, as though it were a puzzle. He glances up at Sammy nervously. The elder just stares back at him, unmoving. 

Dimitri starts rubbing at it, feeling the pressure. Sammy inhales through his nose as he watches the blond’s movements, slow and cautious. When he tries to push in, he winces. The elder then reaches into the back pockets of his jeans and pulls out something Dimitri can’t see immediately; a bottle-shaped shadow. 

“Don’t stop.” He warns as he pops open the cap and leans back over the teenager.

“What is that?” Dimitri eyes it worriedly but Sammy doesn’t answer before squeezing out a cool liquid onto his moving hands. It quickly is spread around, making his finger pads slide around in the wetness, as well as coating his thick length. A shaky exhale leaves him then at the easy momentum, and he starts jacking himself faster. Sammy caps the bottle and lays it aside. Then he scoots up his knee under Dimitri’s thigh, spreading him so that the winking pink of his hole was shamelessly on display.

“Put one finger in. One.”

Dimitri swallows, staring up at Sammy – and the look is a cross between a scared child and dependency, as if the older Italian was his safety net and his Stockholm Syndrome. The long-haired boy keeps his black gaze on the blond like a young, hungry wolf, and when Dimitri’s eyebrows hug together desperately and he makes a small, smothered sound, he breaks the glare to glance down at the show. Dimitri’s got his index finger sliding in and out of his hole with careful, well rounded motions. It hypnotizes Sammy. Breath stutters out of the Russian’s mouth, the hand on his cock slowing at the new sensation. 

“Yeah, like that. Faster.”

He obeys, rocking his knuckles against his ass with closed eyes. The sounds that escape him are bitten-off and mumble-some, tiny bits of Russian that don’t quite make it into words. 

“Now another.” Sammy’s whole body feels hot, tight and wound up, but he keeps himself perfectly still over Dimitri. When the blond pushes another finger into himself, without a word of backtalk, he lets out a struggling moan, head knocking against the arm rest. He bites down on his lip, muffling the wobbly chain of song. His eyes are still closed, determinedly, even when he starts driving both his fingers deep into him with hard, undulating rhythm. Sammy can see his hips pumping, heels fighting for traction on where one lies on the floor and another on the couch spine. The slapping at his cock returns now, less than full speed but loud still.

“Fuck,” The Italian breathes, and Dimitri moans. “Another, put in another.”

“Too much,” The blond’s voice is a nervous tenor – and then he hits something inside him that makes his mouth spill open beautifully, whole body seizing for a moment. Sammy’s worried he’s about to come, but all he does is keen, jacking himself short, quick strokes. His fingers are a hard, steady force, making his hips roll at the sharp thrust of his hand, and all Sammy can think is: this is how Dimitri likes to be fucked. With rough, heavy pumps that shove deep into his ass, moving his whole body up sparse inches on the couch, making him moan like a housewife in heat. He reaches down and palms the tent in his jeans then, squeezing it without thought or awareness. 

“I – ahn, I –”

“You’re not going to come. Not yet.” Sammy doesn’t look up from his ass. 

“I can’t wait anymore, is too much.” He pleads, and his body stutters again, the same way as before. He moans in the shape of a question, unused to his bodily reaction, but quickly answers himself with a staccato whimper. “Blizkiy.”

Sammy doesn’t have to speak Russian to remember what that word means. He reaches into his backpocket then and pulls out another secret item – one he’d bought along with the lube at the skeazy Playtime store on Dewberry Street on his way home. Not a place or a street where his friends or anyone he knew really would ever catch him in, dead or alive. He keeps the small toy hidden in his fist before leaning over Dimitri again, who pants with a heaving chest. Sammy’s legs scoot up so his lips can hover above the blond’s own, inadvertently stretching up the Russian’s knees even further in the process. His body was like a two page spread in Playgirl. Sammy tangles a hand in his rucked up locks and the boy whimpers, keeping his eyes sealed. 

“Come for me.” He breathes into his ear. “Come for me, now.”

He pushes the hot, rigid bulge of his pants up against Dimitri’s hasty hand and when the Russian feels it against his knuckles, his eyes shoot open and he moans loud, the sound curving high and breathy at the end. He comes then, nose tucked up against Sammy’s pulse and lips sliding open against his neck, and spills thick and sweet all over his stomach, chest, and finally just below his chin, on his bobbing throat. 

“Fuck,” Sammy groans, but doesn’t waste any time in pushing away the blond’s fingers from his ass with his hand, the one that holds a small, clean plug. Dimitri lifts up his thighs for him, lost in the haze of the orgasm still rippling through him, but doesn’t expect it when he feels a foreign object being delicately pushed into his ass with a slow, efficient hand.

“Huh – wha, what?” The blond shudders at the intrusion, his whole body feeling sensitive. He looks down at his ass, and his eyes widen in alarm. “Chto eto za shtuka?”

“A lesson. In discipline.” Sammy leans back, looking down at his handiwork with pride. “You’ll wear it all day tomorrow, and tonight. Maybe longer, if I feel like it.”

“But I do everything you say, why I need discipline?” Dimitri sits up, face pinched red and eyes stricken. 

“For one thing? That phony skill you call English. And another thing?” 

Sammy leans forward and shows him three fingers. “Not two.”

Dimitri breathes heavily, looking slightly panicked after he glances down at the plug in his red, debauched hole. “I can’t – I cannot wear this to school, not all day. What if someone finds out? What I say?”

“I don’t know. How many people do you plan on showing your ass to at school, Mudak?” 

He flushes, and slowly looks down. Sammy watches his eyes travel around at the scene they’ve made; the pillows on the floor, his boxers around his ankle, his half-on sock, his bunched shirt he can’t pull down without making a mess of the come on his chest. He sees something akin to embarrassment sweep the blond’s features. He licks his lips.

“Chin up, kid.” He smiles like a devil. “You might learn to like it.”

Dimitri does not, in fact, learn to like it. In less than twenty-four hours, he learns to loathe it.

“Well, I’d say you’re settling in pretty well with your new job, Sammy.” Mrs. Vincetti says at dinner the following night, when everyone’s sat around the lavish mahogany dining table. “I thought working long hours might not be your forte, but I definitely underestimated your responsibility level. You’ve become very mature since you started.”

Sammy stares sinisterly at Dimitri’s squirming form at the opposite side of the round table, a tiny smirk clawing at his lips. “Glad you noticed.” 

“No your mother’s right, Sammy boy. You’ve ah really manned up in the warehouse, picked up ah lot a spunk. I like that.” His father chimes, jovially chewing on a green bean. “You keep it up and soon you’ll be outta there, ah? Going oop the ladder.”

Dimitri can’t stop fidgeting, and it’s mesmerizing. Despite Sammy’s endless hours counting figures at the warehouse and barking orders at truck drivers and dumb henchmen, he can’t take his tired eyes off of the poor creature. They glaze something dark when Dimitri leans forward on his elbows on the table, swallowing thickly, and meets his eyes with a burn. 

“Hopefully sooner than never, right pops?” Sammy grins and turns to his parents, ignoring the blond. They both laugh, whole-heartedly. Dimitri seethes at this. As the moment dies down, his mother takes notice of the boy’s uncomfortable face. 

“Dean, are you feeling alright? You look a little…tight.” 

Dimitri startles like a deer in the headlights. Sammy almost snorts. 

“Da,” He nods quickly, though his voice shakes. “Prostite, I may clear plate now?”

“Of course, sweetheart. Here, Sammy will help you clean up. Right Sammy?”

“Sam the man, ah?” His father claps a hand to his son’s shoulder, roughly. Sammy winces. 

“Sure thing.”

“Lovely.” His mother’s smile is glowing.

When Dimitri corners him against the marble kitchen counters, it’s after both his parents have adjourned upstairs for the night. The sink water is rushing hot over crusty plates and the dishwasher door is agape, and Sammy can’t bring a single weary bone in his body to care when the hot-blooded Russian pushes him against the counter edge, like a crazy snake.

“Take it out.” He hisses, glaring redly. 

“Take what out?” Sammy tries not to laugh, wiping the dish in his towel-hand casually.

“Don’t play-dumb with me, ty zadnista.” He echoes the words from the first time Sammy intimidated him, when he took away his Benz keys. “I put up with your games this whole day, and I’m done. I cannot sit through another Trig study with this thing, inside of me.”

A wave of heat soars through Sammy at the desperation struggling below the surface of his words, but he doesn’t know whether to laugh or stare at the Russian. Could the blond have really kept the plug in there for the whole day, ever since Sammy first put it there? The mere fact that he was asking the Italian to remove it instead of just doing it himself was astounding enough. This kid really did not dare disobey him. He wonders briefly if Dimitri was still scared that he was going to show his porn to his parents – in all honesty, he’d practically forgotten all about it. What’s the worse his parents could do to a teenager for looking at porn anyways? It’s not like they’d throw him out or something.

Unless, that's what Dimitri thought.

The look of desperation on the orphan’s face makes him wonder how real that possibility might be to Dimitri. 

“I don’t think that tone looks good on you.” He sets the plate down and tosses the towel over his shoulder, leaning back comfortably. “Why don’t you try asking nicely?”

Dimitri glares. “I won’t beg you.”

“Nobody said anything about begging.” Sammy wrestles down a grin. “Just a little ‘please’, yeah?”

“You deserve no please.” He whispers right in his face, upper lip twitching. Another heat wave floods Sammy. He keeps his gaze dark, staring down the defiant blond. 

“Well I don’t think I can be touching you anywhere with that attitude.” He murmurs thoughtfully. Dimitri doesn’t back down, eyes electric. “Let’s say – one more day?”

The Russian looks as if someone lit his spine on fire. “No. No.”

“Keep it up and that thing can stay there all weekend, huh? Doesn’t sound very sanitary to me.” Sammy makes an awkward face. Dimitri flushes hot. Sammy has to turn around and pick up the plate to hide his grin, giving it noncommittal wipes. 

“Goodnight, Dee.” He dismisses. 

“Wait – Sammy.” The Russian panics, and hearing his name in that unsure, thick accent makes Sammy’s insides boil. He turns to give him a sidelong glance. 

“I can’t – not one more day.” Dimitri swallows, pleadingly. 

Sammy smirks. “Just one word. And you’re free.”

A stampede of emotions flit across his face, but they all end the same: red hot anger. 

“Poshel ty.” 

When the Russian’s bedroom door slams upstairs, Sammy bursts out laughing. 

His bones feel like pudding the next day. 

“No no no – we’re missing twelve bags, y’got that? Twelve, Einstein. That’s one whole fucking case.”

Not just because he had to translate every single word he barked at the Vincetti hounds to Italian – including the slurs – but because half the day was spent carrying around heavy cargo and shoving it up on high shelves. After ten hours of the combo, it was needless to say that he thought his father was Satan, and by the time he was on the road home he barely had the energy to speed. His Granturismo would be frowning at him if it could.  


When he shuts his bedroom door behind him, everyone in the house is already asleep. It’s quiet. He clicks on the night lamp and lets it wash the room in candle-yellow light, before peeling off his grimy shirt and sinking into the swivel chair of his rosewood desk, a deep sigh leaving his body as the comfort of its plush cushions hug him all around.  


Then his door bursts open and closed in a flash, and Dimitri’s yanking on both the locks until they clack like he had three squad cars behind him. He’s wearing those loose flannel pajamas his mother gave to him his first night in the mansion; slightly too big from her overestimation of the orphan. He spins around and presses his back against the door, gaze cocked like a gun on Sammy. 

His face looks absolutely shot. 

“I cannot take this anymore.” He walks over to him, steps dangerously controlled. “I cannot last one more second like this, Sammy. Take it out.”  


Sammy almost forgot about the entire situation he’d left with the Russian, but remembers fully now as he stares up at Dimitri. The blond grows desperate at Sammy’s silence.

“Please, Sammy please,” He slips to his knees, gripping the Italian’s thighs with a claw-like vice and looking up at him with wide, glistening eyes. “I do anything once you do, anything you want. Please.” 

Sammy leans back in his chair, eyes half-lidded with weariness and arousal. He likes how Dimitri looks from this position, he thinks. His hand comes down and slides his fingers through the thick blond hair, soft and heavy. Dimitri moves into the touch, throat bobbing when he swallows again, and his eyes flutter, grip tightening on Sammy’s pants. When he trails his hand down the Russian’s face, thumb brushing his cheek and lower lip, Dimitri kisses it with a pillowy red mouth, eyes appearing glazed all of the sudden. He lets the blond take initiative, watching him with honey-eyes as he kisses down the side of it and sends heat curling up Sammy’s spine when he licks the underside, then takes the pad of it into his mouth, suckling with slow urgency. Sammy feels the slippery wetness of his tongue, the shiny slide of his rosy lips. 

He knows he would not be doing this at any other time than now, when he’s boneless and exhausted in his chair. Dimitri is the one who performs during these things, never the other way around. But now he cards his hand through his blond hair and gently drags his head up his muscled thigh, slow and thoughtful. Dimitri goes willingly, exhaling in a whoosh when his nose grazes the thick hardness jutting against the fabric. Sammy’s hand eases on his scalp, massaging the base of his head without a word. The blond’s lips drag against his bulge while his hands move up his body, one touching his bare side while the other follows his lips, stopping at his bulge. His mouth breathes against Sammy’s abs. 

“Please,” He looks at him, and Sammy can see sweat beading on his forehead. “Ty nuzhen mne, Sammy. Hozyain.”

Something sparks low in Sammy’s gullet, burning into a sizzle. Something in the way Dimitri's lips talk into his skin, the way his eyelashes look when his eyes are downturned. The silent tremble of a perhaps too-loyal pet. Not like the henchmen back in the warehouse at all, whose skulls were thick as lead pipes. No, Dimitri was perfect. One word was all he needed.

He stands Dimitri to his feet and brings his waist forward, fingers splayed around the blond’s flannel pajama waistband and the bare skin above it, shirt messed up by his knuckles. Dimitri’s chest heaves, holding to Sammy’s broad, tan forearms gingerly, and Sammy sees now that he’s tenting his pajamas. It’s the first time he’s seen Dimitri hard of his own volition, not having told him to make it so beforehand. He can sense the Russian is unsure, nervous at Sammy’s silent, gentle nature. 

“Sammy?” His voice comes unsteady, watching as the Italian stares at his hard-on. 

Sammy just leans his nose forward, letting it smooth across his bare side just above his hip bone, and breathes down his naval where his hair thins into a golden sheen. Dimitri’s hand flies to the back of the chair, grip tight, and lifts up a knee when Sammy has him tuck it beside his own strong thigh. His hip drifts up to Sammy’s lips, and the Italian lets them rub together lazily.

“Sammy, what are you doing?” Dimitri shakes above him. 

The elder just looks up at him with dark, whiskey brown eyes that keep every thought to themselves. Arousal sneaks up on Dimitri at that. He swallows, whispering. “Sammy.”

The Italian pulls up the front of his shirt with one hand, and the other is tugging the waistband of both his pants and his boxers down without warning. When his cock is freed he shudders, grip tightening. Sammy leans in to nuzzle its base, breathing against it moistly. Dimitri stiffens. Then Sammy licks up it, right along the underside with a slow, flat tongue in a grown-up parody of what Dimitri was doing only seconds before to his thumb. The breath Dimitri lets out is a half-gasp, half-pant. 

“Oh – bozhe,” His brow knits together in desperation. Sammy presses a wet kiss to the flushed, pink head before swirling his tongue around it, and then suckling it sweetly. A slew of half-formed Russian struggles to leave Dimitri’s mouth, his knuckles white at chair’s leather. His hips give a little pump, but Sammy’s iron hands keep him still, mouth leaving him for a moment in reprimand. Dimitri whines, looking down at him. His face is wrecked. 

“Please Sammy, please, please.”

His mouth returns to him then, sucking wetly to the tip until he’s taken his cock halfway, head rocking without urgency or rush. Dimitri moans, each one ending in an ‘ah’ sound no matter how tightly he pressed his lips together when they started. His back arches and his head tilts back, hips small between Sammy’s big brown hands. He sucks deeply, fingers inching to the back of Dimitri’s pants as he moved the blond’s hips in tiny undulations. 

“Ah – ahn, da, da,” He keens when he feels them rub at his clothed ass, grasping it with warm handfuls. His cock sways in and out of Sammy’s mouth at the rhythm of his hips, the tight press of his lips making his eyes squeeze shut. “Uhn, Sammy, Sammy . . .”

His fingers press between his cheeks, the thin fabric giving way under his fingertips so he can feel against the plug that’s faithfully situated inside. Dimitri yelps, and then presses back, legs spreading as much as they can on the chair. Sammy moves his hips back and forth, guiding him into his mouth and then into his hand, easily. He makes short ‘huh’ sounds, smoothing out into steady hums whenever Sammy rubs at his ass. 

“I, ah, Sammy – da. Ya khochu tebya tam, trogay menya tam.” He pants needily, and when Sammy dips his hands into his boxers to dig his fingers into the soft flesh of his ass his eyelids flutter. Sammy kneads his cheeks, pulling them apart under his fingers to inch dangerously close to the plug. Dimitri bends forward to spread his ass, all nervousness gone in place of desperation. He moans, begging, and Sammy pulls off his cock to pant against his stomach. Dimitri bunches the slacking shirt fabric of his in one hand, so it doesn’t fall in his face, and looks down at the Italian. His eyes are glowing.

“Sammy,” He swallows, tightly. “Ya khochu tebya.”

Sammy starts kissing his skin again, trailing all the way down Dimitri’s shaft to lick at the joint of its base to his sac. Dimitri exhales hotly.

“Ya khochu tebya seyches. Ya khochu tebya vnutri menya.” Sammy’s fingers land on the plug and push at it, hard. “Oh, god. Hozyian.”

“English.” Sammy’s voice sounds rough and wet. “Say it in English.”

Dimitri shakes his head, closing his eyes. Sammy pushes at the plug again, mouth pulling away from his cock. Dimitri groans, attempting to spread his legs out again. 

“Say it or it’s gonna stay there. I’ll never touch it.”

“Want, I want –” Dimitri’s flushed red, looking trapped. “I want you.”

Sammy’s nostrils flare, looking up at the Russian as if spurred. 

“I want you to touch me,” He says, quietly. “I – I like it. Hozyian. Master.”  
Sammy gives him a long, quiet look. Then, he starts pressing kisses to the boy’s side, thoughtfully. His hand comes up and starts jacking him at a languid pace, and when Dimitri feels Sammy’s hand on him for the first time he lets out a high moan. 

“You like it when I touch you?” He murmurs into Dimitri’s skin. 

“Uhn, uh-huh,” The Russian warbles. Sammy starts pulling down the clothes covering his ass with his unoccupied hand, letting them bunch around his thighs. 

“Where do you like it when I touch you? Here?” He squeezes Dimitri’s cock, and he blond makes a pathetic sound. “Or here?” 

His lips dance wetly across the top of his right cheek, pressing warmly there. Dimitri trembles, looking dizzy for a moment. Sammy brings up his spare hand and lets it slither up to the blond’s plug, stroking along it all the way to the crease of his ass.

“You want me to touch you here?” Sammy asks, and he nods, feverish. “Me, hozyian?”

“Da,” Dimitri looks down at him. “Hozyian.”

Sammy jacks him quicker, grip tightening. His other hand pushes at the plug for a moment, before pulling it out with a slow burn. Dimitri grabs Sammy’s shoulder and releases a pained cry. Sammy tosses the plug to the floor, and then reaches up to feel how tight the blond is, fingers rubbing at his hole curiously. Dimitri inhales sharply, body tense. 

“That it?” Sammy rumbles. “That what you want?”

“Pozhaluysta,” He whimpers.

“You want me to be inside you, yeah?” His middle finger presses in, but doesn’t enter. “You want me to fuck you?”

Dimitri cries out and comes, spilling all over Sammy’s broad chest and neck. The Italian milks him through it, feeling how loose and easy his body becomes. He imagines fucking him just like this; the blond lax underneath him, shaky moans descending into dreamy hums and half-murmurs of Russian. Dimitri slides down onto Sammy’s lap then, bonelessly, and when he feels the hard bulge against his bare ass he whimpers, another pulse leaving him weakly. The blond’s head rests on his shoulder, breath coming in pants against Sammy’s neck. He stays there, rocking his hips back and forth gently as the orgasm leaves him. Soon he’s just sitting there, panting.  


The Italian waits until he’s sure Dimitri’s about to fall asleep before jolting him upright with a good smack to his ass, loud in the quiet room. 

“Go to bed.” Is all he says, leaning back in his chair. Dimitri looks at him with glazed eyes, soft and worried at the mess on Sammy’s chest. The Italian gives him a hard look. 

“Go.” 

The blond nervously slips his clothes up to his waist again and peels away from Sammy, legs wobbly as he stands. Before he closes the bedroom door, he fixes the other with a mesmerized glance, as if Sammy were a limited edition Rubik’s cube. Sammy jacks off to it before even toweling his chest off.  
Days go by without as much as a glance from Sammy after that night. Unease, naturally, festers in Dimitri’s stomach like an infection. Every night that the Italian came home, exhausted from his long hours at work, and shut himself into his room for the night felt like a whip across Dimitri’s back. What had he done to deserve this?  


He spends most of his nights wrapping up the various school work, advance placement classes and extracurricular essays he occupied himself with, but when four days had rolled on by he could hardly concentrate on any of it – not a single letter, or number. His pencil hits the desk one night with a tiny clatter, a hard sigh leaving him. He rests his head in his hands, fingers knotting in his hair. His body felt burnt, striped with ugly without Sammy around it. 

_You like it when I touch you?_

The bedroom door shuts softly behind him when he pads barefoot into the hallway, glancing around at the empty house nervously. It’s dark, all the lights off, and quiet. Not a sound in the blackness. He moves slowly, pajama-clad and chilly in the spacious home, and heads toward Sammy’s room.  
The Italian’s door isn’t locked, much to Dimitri’s fear and fortune. He nudges it open and peers into it, eyes landing on the king bed by the window. Sammy’s sleeping form rests under the covers, torso heaving in deep breaths. Dimitri closes the door and edges toward him, staring at the sneak of bare shoulder peeking out from the blankets with buzzing apprehension. 

The bed dips under his weight, the mattress quiet as he crawls forward. He slides himself under the covers, movements as slow as a tortoise. Sammy doesn’t stir, doesn’t make a sound. Dimitri swallows, lowering his body down beside the older boy shakily. He feels like he could just fall apart, the fear filling him like a drug. His head sinks onto a pillow, the warmth of Sammy’s body touching him like a phantom hand. 

“Ty takaya krasivaya.” He breathes, barely a whisper. 

Sammy doesn’t move, his torso rising and falling just the same as before. Dimitri leans forward just a few inches, boldly. His nose hovers above the Italian’s pulse, lips parting soft. 

“Ya khochu byt vashim.”

He’s taken in a heartbeat. One moment he’s gazing at Sammy’s dark brown hair, and the next his peripheral vision is thrown to the ceiling. The Italian has his wrists pinned above his pillow, his eyes boings down on Dimitri with whiskey-brown, sleep-drunk intent. 

“What do you think you’re doing?” 

Dimitri swallows, heart pounding. 

“You think I can’t hear you, whispering like that?” He murmurs, watching Dimitri squirm with half-lidded eyes. “The hell are you doing in here, Red?”

The blond’s chest heaves. “I. I wanted to –”

“You wanted to what, watch me sleep?” 

“I wanted to see you.” Dimitri stares up at him with eyes like orbs, magnetized by Sammy’s sudden attention after four days of nothing. 

“Yeah?” Sammy’s body settles from atop Dimitri’s, sinking heavy between his legs. “You miss me, Red?”

It’s quiet for a moment. “Da,” Comes his soft voice, finally. “I miss you.”

Sammy stares down at him, feeling how relaxed his wrists are in his strong paws, how there’s no struggle in any part of his body. He leans forward to nose into Dimitri’s hair, inhaling his shampoo scent. The Russian’s chest surges up against Sammy’s own, sucking in a breath. 

“What did you miss, huh?” His voice vibrates against the blond’s scalp. “My voice, or my mouth?”

His hips roll, light and lazy against Dimitri’s own. The boy exhales shakily and parts his legs, with shy, ginger movements. 

“Yeah? Is that it?” Sammy’s mouth trails down behind his ear, lips grazing the shell of it. “You miss fingering your ass for me? Touching yourself?”

Dimitri’s eyelids flutter at the feel of Sammy undulating against him. “Touching?”

“Touching yourself here?” His hand leaves the blond’s wrist to drag down his body and under his pants, sealing itself over Dimitri’s clothed, half-hard length. The Russian whimpers as Sammy squeezes him, stroking along the fabric for a moment, before descending lower to rub at the path beneath his balls. 

“Or letting me touch you here?” His lifts away from Dimitri’s neck to look at his face, his lips flushed red. The blond’s eyes are tightly shut, mouth parted in rapid, shallow breaths. 

“Look at me.” 

He opens them, facing Sammy with a look that’s two parts lust and one part shame. Sammy stares, and then slides his hand into Dimitri’s boxers, grasping his cock warmly. His whole body comes to life against Sammy’s, a moan held in for four days licking up the Italian’s body. The other hand that’s holding his wrist is brought down to cradle the blond’s head, so he can lean his forehead against Dimitri’s own. 

“Why’d you come in here, huh?” He says into the Russian’s parted lips. “What do you want?”

Dimitri’s hips pump into his hand, legs spreading further. “Want you.”

“Where?” Sammy jacks him, slow. “How?”

His eyes trail down Sammy’s face, and he gets quiet. The Italian pumps him harder, thrusting his hips into the motion. 

“Talk to me.”

Dimitri swallows down a sound, trembling. “I want – I want to kiss you.”

Sammy slackens. Dimitri goes on, nerves eating him alive.

“I – I want to kiss you, I want to kiss you everywhere – ty takaya krasivaya.” He nuzzles Sammy’s nose with his own. “I want to be yours.”

The Italian goes still, watching Dimitri mutely. The Russian keeps nuzzling him, lips gliding down to his pulse. 

“You let me?” He hums into his skin. “You touch me?”

It’s silent for a dangerous moment. Sammy’s hand soon leaves Dimitri’s pants, and instead tugs the blond’s head up by his hair. Then, he – kisses him. Hard. His mouth pushes Dimitri’s head against the pillow, swallowing a desperate whimper caught in his throat. Dimitri kisses back with a wobbly sigh through his nose, hips pumping up once more. His ankles lock around Sammy’s waist this time, thighs tight at his sides. Sammy thrusts into him, letting him feel the hardness there. 

“Take off your clothes, all of them.” He says between kisses, firm and smacking. Dimitri moans when they move down his neck, and suckle hot to his pulse.

“You going to fuck me?” He asks, and shivers when Sammy gives him a shallow bite. 

“I’m going to own you.” The Italian kisses the spot under his ear. “You belong to me, don’t you?” 

Dimitri’s breath stutters. Belong?

Sammy sits up, sliding his palms down and pressing them against Dimitri’s flat chest.

“Take off your clothes.”

The Russian’s hands fall over his, nervous at first, but when Sammy untangles himself from the bed covers he promptly moves to his knees, chasing after the warmth. The elder gives him a reprimanding glare. He swallows, and then carefully removes his shirt.  


Sammy watches him, a pleased smirk pulling at the corner of his lip but not winning. Dimitri lets the shirt fall to the bedside, and begins untying his pants drawstrings. The Italian moves to his dresser and roots around until he pulls out a small plastic bottle. When he turns around with it, Dimitri’s pants are around his knees, as he pulls them away in tender inches. Sammy takes control of the situation and slides them off and away, his boxers not short to follow. Dimitri watches him as he sits between his naked legs, his disheveled hair and face and moon-eyes making it seem like he’d already been fucked, and heat curls in Sammy’s gut.

He stands up then, and when he shoves off his bottoms for the first time in front of Dimitri the blond feels as if he’s been dipped in hot wax, eyes pinned to the thick, hard cock that bobs there, dark in the shadows of the window light. He’s never seen any other one besides his own before – in all actuality, Dimitri had never thought his first time would be with a man, at all. He’d never even considered men attractive before. But now his whole body steams, drifting back against the covers in a shudder. Sammy’s eyes glint, well aware of the effect he had. 

“Spread yourself for me, let me see.” He says, kneeing his way back in between the blond’s legs. Dimitri gathers his knees in his hands and makes a V, chest pumping fast when Sammy stares down at his hole. The Italian drags his fingers along the pink flesh, pressing his thumb pad against it flatly. Dimitri licks his lips, a sweat already breaking out on hairline.

“Sammy.” He swallows. “Sammy, I – oh, bozhe.”

“You gonna be tight for me?” Sammy rubs inwards, softly. “You gonna be able to take my cock?”

Dimitri rolls his hips up into his touch. Sammy was big, not monstrously so, but enough to make his whole body flinch when the elder pushes his thumb into him, skin tight and dry there. He keeps on going until its fitted down to the knuckle, Dimitri whimpering the whole way.

“Fuck,” He squeezes liquid out of the bottle and it falls lukewarm on the blond’s skin, dripping down his balls to where Sammy rubs it in with his thumb. The slide is easier then, and he starts rocking a finger into Dimitri, who clutches at his knees with tight, tight fingers.

“I can’t – Sammy, please,” He pants, brow furrowed in concentration. 

“Yeah that’s good,” Sammy leans over him, palm resting beside his blond hair. “You gonna be a good boy for me, Dee? Huh?”  
His knuckles push into the Russian’s hips, making his body drag against the bed every time Sammy thrusted. “I – I, ah.”

“Talk to me, Red.” His nose circles Dimitri’s cheek, the blond’s head tossed to the side. All he gets is ragged pants in reply. He plunges another finger inside, letting them curl and stroke within until Dimitri cries out breathily, vice grip on his knees.

“Ahn, uh – uhn, Sammy,” His moans end in gasps, toes curling. 

“Gonna be good for me, Dee?” 

“Uh huh, uh . . .” The blond closes his eyes. “Be good. Belong.”

“That’s right.” Sammy’s third finger prods at him, inching in. “Belong.”

Dimitri’s pants speed up shallowly as the third one enters, the elder’s hand moving in slow, powerful bursts against him. There’s a constant wobbly sound that thrums in the Russian’s throat now, the kind of vocal distraction a hiker might make as they cross a rickety bridge across a bottomless canyon, their eyes tightly closed just like Dimitri’s are. Sammy fingers him with intent, and turns to suck kisses down the blond’s neck, nipping at his collarbones and suckling a nipple into his mouth. Dimitri’s shudders, back arching with a sigh. Sammy lets slide between his teeth, sending shivers all down the blond’s spine, and fingers him faster. Dimitri whimpers.

“Can’t do this, am new. Won’t last – Sammy.” His voice flies up a note when Sammy’s fingers catch on a secret spot inside him. He gives it tight, insistent rubs that make Dimitri’s whole body shake, toes curling. The Russian keens higher and higher, until Sammy slows to a halt and pulls his hand away, giving Dimitri’s thigh a decisive smack afterwards.  
Then, grabbing the lube bottle once more, he starts slicking up his thick cock at a casual, unconcerned pace. 

“You’re gonna last, Red.” He says meanwhile. Dimitri watches his gleaming digits work his heavy, slippery dick with half-awake eyes. “You’re gonna learn.”

Then Dimitri’s being flipped over onto his knees, arms scrambling for purchase on the soft sheets. Sammy’s hands grip his waist, and when he pulls his ass flush against his heavy sac Dimitri moans out insecurely. 

“Am new,” He repeats, twisting to look back at the Italian with glazed eyes. 

“Yeah,” Sam stares down at where his cock slides between Dimitri’s cheeks, hypnotized. “You gonna be mine, Red? Give it up for me?” He sidles his chest up against Dimitri’s back, murmuring into the hairs on his nape. 

The blond swallows, thickly, and then nods. His voice is soft, adoring. “Da, hozyian.” 

Sammy watches him spread his legs more, moving to lay flat on his arms like a sprawled cat. Then he nudges forward, cock head pressing into Dimitri’s flushed pink hole with an electric zing up the blond’s spine. “Ah – bozhe, bozhe.”

“Oh, fuck.”

“Ahn, ah! Sammy,” Dimitri cries out when Sammy’s fully lodged inside him, hips flush against the blond’s ass. The Italian quickly mutes the loud sounds with a hand on the boy’s mouth, shushing him in a whisper. It’d be a miracle if his parents heard any of this in their museum of a home, but he wasn’t taking any chances. Dimitri was loud. He could hear his nasally whimpers, feels them butterfly gentle against his knuckles, along with the unsteady vibrato moan caught in his throat. When the blond leans forward on his elbows, fists clenching at the sheets beneath his collar, Sammy lets his unoccupied arm come down and swoop his wrists up in his hand, locking them against Dimitri’s chest safely.

“You gotta be good for me, Dee,” He murmurs into the moist blond hair, hips nuzzling at him. Dimitri nods in a rush, body shifting within his grip only slightly. Sammy gives a small rock forward again, feeling the clench and release of the Russian’s body beneath him. His breath hitches against Sammy’s fingers, lashes fluttering. 

When he starts up a steady, hard rhythm against Dimitri, the blond gets louder. The pulse-release of moans buzz against the bob of his throat and his biceps flex, forearms tightening in Sammy’s grip. There’s a desperation there in his voice, a struggle. Sammy drives into him with force to hear it grow; giving him hard, firm fucks that increase in power but not speed. Dimitri whimpers Sammy’s censored name, legs spreading impossibly further.

“You like that, Red?” His voice appears at Dimitri’s ear, breath hot and wet. “You like getting fucked by your big brother?”

Something akin to a hiccup leaps in the blond’s mouth, and he squirms. Sammy latches onto the reaction with predatory quickness.

“Yeah? That it?” He circles his hips; once, twice. “You like taking it for the family?”

Dimitri wriggles at that, twisting in Sammy’s arms until the Italian takes his hand from his mouth and tangles it in his hair instead, tugging it hard to pull the boy’s face up. His mouth pops open in a hot flushed ring of pink, gasp torn from him with more voice than breath.

“For you,” Is what he says, with both eyes screwed shut. “Dlya vas, Sammy.”

Heat burns all along the Italian’s back. He quickens his pace, and Dimitri lets out a low, endless trill, his boyish sounds harmonizing with the insistent slapping of skin, the headboard that would occasionally graze the wall in muted thumps. 

“Just me?” He starts again, and Dimitri replies with a needy moan. “You touch yourself thinking about me, when I’m not around?” 

The blond stammers when he circles his hips again, and then he turns to burn holes into the sheets with his eyes. 

“Please, Sammy – is too much, ochen bolshoy. Can feel you everywhere.”

“Answer me,” He tightens his hold on him. “You touch yourself to me?”

“Da – ah,” The high rise flush on Dimitri’s cheeks darkens impossibly. “E-Every night, without you.” 

His hips snap back into him, pounding hard and fast. Dimitri yelps out tiny ‘ah’ sounds that climb upwards, and when Sammy frees his wrists so he can sit up and grip the  
Russian’s hips they turn into long, heavy groans. 

“Da Sammy, oh – uhn.” He tries to slide back into Sammy’s thrusts, fisting the sheets beneath him. The Italian stares down at where his cock disappears into Dimitri’s ass, eyes dark and twinkling with wetness, heavy pants leaving his hanging mouth. When he catches the blond’s hand slither down towards his untouched cock he snatches it up in his fist, planting it back on the mattress firmly.

“Didn’t say you could,” He reaches down and gives his hard, wet cock a long pull, sliding the precome dripping there all along the underside. “Remember the rules.”

Dimitri cries out. “Da, da. Ya sobirayus' priyti – uhn, Sammy.” 

His whole body flexes when he comes, a gorgeous whine spilling out of him, disrupted by the sudden shakes of his body. Sammy rides him through it, groaning when his body tightens and softens out. He curses, driving into his ass quicker. Dimitri’s blue eyes watch him as if staring through a dream-screen, and when his lips part against the sheets in an unspoken ‘hozyian’ Sammy loses it. He comes hard into Dimitri’s ass, long spurts pushing the blond’s hips into the mattress. A groan leaves his lips, Sammy can feel it reverberate in the Russian’s body as he rocks into him, and soon finally falls onto the space beside him. 

Their bodies heave thick gusts of breath, loud in the silent room. Sammy turns to find Dimitri’s head facing the wall, his unblemished shoulder rising and falling in soft pants. Leaning over and pulling a towel from the nightstand, he cleans off the two of them, the blond’s body as active as jelly beneath him. He draws it up against his chest before tossing the rag and covering them with the heavy blankets. Dimitri shivers when he feels another man’s body pressed against him like this – specifically, Sammy’s. The Italian never let him stay afterwards. He shifts backwards, making himself comfortable in the too-hot press of Sammy’s muscles, his arms firm and unmoving around Dimitri’s waist and warm where his palm splays on his smooth chest.

*

Sunlight streams through the arched glass windows the next morning, and the smell of tobacco rouses Dimitri from sleep. His eyes peel open blearily and he slowly looks behind him to see Sammy lying flat on his back with a long cigarette in his mouth, hands pillowed under his head lazily. There’s no filter to it, only an oaky brown shaft, like a baby cigar. He glances from the shirtless glow of Sammy’s body in daylight to its forbidden curl of smoke dancing in the air, his gaze glazed and lips still puffy.

“They let you have cigarette, inside?”

Sammy looks at him with a distantly pleased face.

“These aren’t cigarettes. They’re Havana ovals.” He takes another drag, the tip burning orange for one long, sensual second. “Nobody comes into my room anyways.”

Dimitri looks down, red stinging his cheeks. “I . . . did not know you smoke.”

“I don’t.” He exhales a thick grey stream, languidly. “Just, sometimes.”

It gets quiet. Dimitri, not wanting another rectification, sidles back into his pillow and stares at the wall across from him, the rich scent of tobacco hugging him. It reminds him of the cigars his father used to smoke at the Marksimov House, back when he would spend his mornings helping his mother in the kitchen. He’d set out every plate and pour every coffee cup perfectly before interrupting the men playing pool downstairs to tell them in his little eleven year old voice: Zavtrak gotov, otets. 

His father was never really proud of his helper skills, in all honesty.

He feels the bed dip and a heat wash all up along his bare backside a moment later, and the cigarette soon appears in front of his face from between Sammy’s lean tan fingers. 

“Try it,” His voice rumbles in blond hair. “S’good.”

Dimitri looks hesitant at first. He tentatively wraps his lips around the thin filter, sucking in the earthy, coffee-streaked flavor. It clouds his throat for a second, and he coughs once before expelling a foggy veil of smoke that lips up into Sammy’s nose. He breathes it in between the locks of Dimitri’s hair, unoccupied arm sliding under his body to pull the blond flat against him with one splayed on his chest, fingertips napping on his warm collar bone to feel his heartbeat.

“Not bad, yeah?” He pulls the cigarette away to take a drag from it. Dimitri breathes through his mouth, as if trying to cleanse his lungs of the intrusion. 

“Strong. Very strong.” 

“Another first time of yours, I take it?”

The Russian flushes, remembering how naked he is under the covers. Sammy eyes his face, curiously.

“Mother did not want me smoking,” He says, softly. “I stay inside, most days. Helping around house, Marksimov house.”

The elder thinks about this, imagining Dimitri in a frilly apron and feather duster. It wasn’t that bad of a look, actually. He blows out smoke with a smile playing at his lips.

“Mrs. Vincetti does not have me help, here.” The boy murmurs, as an afterthought.

Sammy’s quiet. After a moment, he dips forward and sips a quick draw, then exhales the smoke into the dip under Dimitri’s ear. The blond shifts against him indolently.

“Your mom wouldn’t like it if she knew you were smoking in here with me?” 

Dimitri shakes his head. “Be mad. Upset with me.”

“Think all the Marksimov’s would be upset with you about that, really.” He takes another drag.

“Yes,” He feels Dimitri’s throat bob. “Very upset. They – they would not like it, if they knew about you.” 

You. Sammy inches forward, legs tangling with Dimitri’s own. 

“If they knew that you smoked with me?” He asks into Dimitri’s hair. “Or that you were fucked by me?”

The Russian sucks in a breath, body shifting again. “B-Both.”

“Yeah?” Sammy trails his lips to Dimitri’s neck. “What would they be more mad about, Dee? The fact that you got fucked by a boy? Or the fact that you got fucked by me?”

“You.” There’s no hesitation in his answer. “They’d hate you more than they hate your father if they knew.” 

The reply sends a deep groan of satisfaction through the Italian. He gives Dimitri’s pulse a soft kiss, before taking a happy drag from his cigarette. He holds in the breath, and tipping the blond’s chin up to nudge his lips apart with his thumb, he releases the smoke into Dimitri’s mouth, letting their morning-sticky breath mingle without care. The Russian takes the blow with half-moon eyelids, letting the mouthful fill his body. There was a pleasant thrum in his veins, making him feel like a sunset. When he opened his eyes again, Sammy was looking down at him, his long brown sleep-mussed hair curtaining his cheekbones and gaze speckled with flecks of green and honey. He takes his last drag from the cigarette before pressing it into the glass ashtray on the nightstand, and then takes Dimitri’s lips in his own.

Smoke seeps out from both of their nostrils in creeping escapes. Dimitri wants to wrap his arms around Sammy’s neck, but he’s still lying on his side, the Italian’s cigarette-free hand tracing circles on his stomach while the other keeps his chin tilted upwards. They kiss deep and slow, Sammy’s mouth smacking of tobacco breakfast. It makes the thrum in Dimitri’s body hum all the merrier, content. Then Sammy’s palm is sliding down the blond’s side to stroke his thigh, smoothing up to his hip bone and then back down to just above his knee, feeling the soft hairs there. The way his fingers stop to squeeze at the flesh of his inner thigh makes Dimitri shudder into Sammy’s mouth, body feeling raw from last night. Sammy pulls him closer, tighter against his chest. His hips come flush against Dimitri’s ass then, and when the Russian feels his half-hard cock pressed there he lets out a shaky breath. Sammy laughs, softly.

“You think the Marksimov’s would hate me a lot more if we did it again, right now?” He murmurs into Dimitri’s ear, and then lets his fingers drift down to the blond’s tender hole, padding against it casually. “You think you’d open up easy for me? Nice and tight?”

Dimitri shudders and nods, remembering how Sammy’s cock felt within him last night; how quickly the burn tuned from uncomfortable to delicious, his own cock filling out in seconds. The intensity of Sammy’s eyes watching his every move might’ve helped, too.

“Very, very upset.” He pushes his ass back into him. “Please, Sammy.”

The Italian licks his lips, rubbing his fingerpads in urgent circles. Dimitri can feel his cock hardening against his skin. After a moment he stops and sucks his fingers into his mouth, impatiently, and the sight of it sends a fire licking up the blond’s spine. He surges up and kisses Sammy’s neck, scattering them around his pulse and adam’s apple needily. 

“Pozhaluysta hozyian,” He grinds his hips back once more, undulating. “Like this.”

Sammy’s wet fingers return to his hole, pushing a finger into him with burning eyes.

“Ah,” Dimitri’s brow knits together, lifting his thigh slightly to accommodate it. It feels stiff, not quite where he wants it. Sammy, a dark look to his face, decisively pulls out and reaches for the lube, slicking himself up with hasty movements. 

“Uhn, Sammy,” He lifts his leg up when he feels Sammy’s cock push into him, mirroring last night. The Italian lends a helping hand to his thigh, tucking it under his knee so he can hold up the leg. Dimitri feels cold at the sudden exposure, but it only lasts as long as Sammy takes to start fucking him, with slow and deep rolls.

“Lublu, kogda ty menya trakhnut.” He moans, pressing back into Sammy’s cock. The elder nips at his earlobe, kissing behind it wetly. 

“Say it in English for me this time.” 

Dimitri shakes his head, flushing vehemently. 

“C’mon,” Sammy sucks the skin between his teeth. “Wanna hear you.”

The Russian swallows. “Love it, when you fuck me –” His breath stutters, the Italian finding a sensitive spot. “F-Feels good.”

“Yeah? You like taking it in the ass for me?” Dimitri moans, unsteadily. Sammy grins into Dimitri’s skin. “Keep going.” He speeds up, nipping at the blond’s pulse. “What else?”

Dimitri looks uncomfortably stuck between arousal and embarrassment. 

“I like it, w-when you – when you touch me, when you. Kiss me.” He gasps when Sammy bites down. “When you come in me. I love it when you come.”

“Fuck, yeah,” Sammy fucks him in earnest now, balls slapping against Dimitri’s skin. His hand drops from the Russian’s collar to pinch at a nipple, giving it a teasing twist.  
Dimitri’s moan cuts through the room, loud enough for someone to hear downstairs. He knows his parents are awake by now, they always start their day at ass o’clock in the morning. He doesn’t care. He fucks into the tight heat of Dimitri’s ass and just wants to see the blond come, wants to see him shoot his hot load all over his chest and neck, wants to do the same to him with his own cock. 

He doesn’t know for how long they’ve been fucking before there’s someone pounding on his bedroom door. He clamps a hand over Dimitri’s boyish groaning and lets go of his leg, letting Dimitri roll onto his stomach with his body sticking quick to his backside, on top of him. They’re sweating like crazy now, the sheets damp beneath their sticky-shiny skin.

“Sammy? You in there?” His mother’s voice appears, nasally and always too loud. “I made coffee and prushoota, and your father bought donuts. They’re downstairs waiting. Have you seen Dean around? He’s not in his room. Is he in there with you?”

“Why, why would he be in here with me?” Sammy replies, rougher than he intended, and Dimitri’s voice rowls at his palm as his body shifts forward, cock sliding over that sensitive spot inside him. He can hear his mother sigh in exasperation.

“I know he’s not your bestest buddy Sammy, but I can’t find him anywhere. He didn’t have a study meet today, did he? It’s Sunday.”

Sammy keeps rocking into Dimitri. When his cock rubs across the sweet spot again the Russian’s hips jerk, lifting to push back into him. His voice is a whimpering mess, body trembling, and Sammy knows he wants to be touched when he humps down into the mattress.

“Check the bathrooms or something.” Sammy tells her, and reaches for Dimitri’s cock.

“I already did.” Dimitri lets out a muffled shout. “Is someone in there with you Sammy? I hear voices.”

“You should probably talk to a doctor about that.” He jacks the blond off in time with his thrusts, the mattress thumping beneath them. The doorknob rattles, thankfully locked.

“What’s going on there? Are you fighting or something? Who’s in there?”

“No one,” He pants. Dimitri mewls, pleadingly. “I’m – watching a movie.”

“What kind of –”

“Try checking the garden, he reads out there some – sometimes.” He bites down a groan when Dimitri clenches. The blond does it again, twisting to look up at his sex-filled face with an amorous growl. Sammy glares at his sudden confidence and speeds up his movements, feeling challenged. When Dimitri moans again he smirks.

“Alright, but if he doesn’t show in ten minutes I’m gonna call Omar’s house. That kid’s always trying to study on weekends. Who does that? I mean, nobody wants to be a doctor that badly, right?”

“Great talk mom, bye.” He can feel the blond tightening up, body arching taut like a bow. 

She sighs again. “Hurry down to breakfast, your food’s getting cold. And if you see your brother, send him down won’t you?”

“Yeah – yeah,” Sammy grinds down into him. Dimitri’s voice pitches up, the slapping of skin much firmer now, and Sammy prays to god for his mother to just leave. He doesn’t hear her footsteps at first, until his father’s voice rings from downstairs and she yells something back at him about the newspaper headlines. She stomps away then, feet marching down the stairs. 

Dimitri’s mouth is uncovered with a burst of sound, like a diver breaking the surface. It quickly morphs into a keen, body tensing at Sammy’s unyielding hips and hand. 

“You little shit,” He grins, and Dimitri whimpers something incoherent in response. He jacks him fast and tight. “Come for me, come for me now.”

He cries out a sharp, broken ‘uhn’ sound and comes in spurts against the sheets, the wetness splashing against Sammy’s knuckles. His body sags under him as soon as he does, boneless and exhausted. The Italian groans into his nape hairs, grinding into his lax body. Soon he’s pulling out and sitting up on his knees, giving Dimitri’s ass a slap. He jolts at the touch, orgasm still twitching through him. 

Sammy reaches down and rolls the limp blond onto his back, and then knees his way onto his exposed stomach, standing on his knees. He leans one hand on the headboard and uses the other to jerk his cock in ready pulls, wet. 

“Sammy,” Dimitri’s hands slide up the elder’s solid thighs, his dreamy post-coital gaze crawling all over his body. He licks his lips. His fingers inch up to Sammy’s cock, and when three of them graze the dark head the Italian stifles a groan into his bicep and shoots ropes of come all over Dimitri’s chest and nipples, watching some of it blot his neck and cheekbone. The blond’s eyelashes flutter for a moment, before reopening to stare in awe at Sammy’s cock. The Italian grins, a shit-eating pearly that sweeps up half his mouth. 

“Good morning.”

Dimitri’s eyes slide up to his, dazed. 

“How do you know I read in garden?”

Sammy’s smile falters. He drops his arm from the headboard and pulls out his cloth from the nightstand, proceeding to clean them both up with lazy, casual motions. Dimitriwatches as the glow of orgasm leaves him, replaced with mounting curiosity for the Italian. 

“Breakfast?” Is how the elder replies when he’s done wiping. 

Dimitri’s appetite is the last thing on his mind. 

He thinks about it a lot the following week at school. He’d stare at the vines crawling around the outside of the long windows in his English class, while his teacher prattled on about grammar rules, and his turned over the mental stones of Sammy’s words.

He didn’t go into the garden often. When he finished the usual mountain of homework he brought home from school every week day, it was almost always supper time, and after supper time it was much too late to go outside. It was the rare fair-weather day that the Russian got to enjoy the Vincetti’s beautiful estate over Tolstoy (untranslated of course – it was much easier to read in Russian than in English for him, not to mention quicker). Even so, most days like that Sammy was working. How did he ever have the time to notice Dimitri reading? 

His locker door gives a noisy slam after his last class has ended. He turns to head out the grand double doors of the prep school and almost knocks face-first into the pretty green eyes of Janice Littleton – president of the French Poetry club and also main flutist in band class. Dimitri had seen her around before – in fact, they sometimes paired up duringbmath class. She was a smart cookie, and he’d always fly through assignments with her. They were usually the first ones to be finished, much to the delight of the teacher and the discomfort of them both, since afterwards they’d just sit there awkwardly and avoid eye contact. At least, Dimitri would. 

He freezes at the sight of her, standing in front of him with her shiny-straight maple brown hair and endless freckles.

“Bonjour Dimitri,” Her smile sparkles at him like sugar crystals on a cinnamon twist, shy and lovely. The French accent lingering behind every vowel feels like a secret. 

“B-Bonjour, Janice.” 

“You forgot your notebook in English class,” Her voice is meek as she hands it to him, and then she looks down at the floor. “I picked it up for you before Mrs. Chastine found it.”

“Thanks,” He takes it from her, still staring. She nods cheerily. 

“Can I walk you out?” 

He thinks it’s an odd question, but allows her to step beside him on the way out the door. Her pleated skirt swishes gently over her bare legs, quiet at Dimitri’s side.

“So I heard you live with the Vincetti’s.” She starts. “Sammy Vincetti?”

The name rumbles in his gut like a hungry lion. “Y-Yes, we – he’s my stepbrother.”

“I didn’t know you two were related. When he was attending here, he never mentioned it.” 

“Uhm – adopted, I am adopted.” He flushes. “You knew him, here?”

Both he and Janice were juniors. He assumed, that if Janice started freshmen year at fourteen, she might’ve bumped into a junior Sammy, since the Italian was only two year older than both of them. 

“Oh, no. Not at all.” She ducks her head, smiling with an almost-giggle. “He was – he was just really popular, that’s all. Everybody loved him.”

Dimitri doesn’t find that hard to believe at all. He pushes open the double doors and they walk out into the court yard together, the sun bearing down on them in brilliant yellow beams.

“So I was thinking,” Janice starts again, sounding rushed. A paper is pressed into his hand without warning, and when he looks down it’s a colorful flier. 

“There is a Poetry Slam being held at the Metronome, down on First Street.” She explains, pausing in front of him. “I – I was wondering if, maybe you’d like to come with me?”

He looks up from the flier, advertising exactly that, and is caught under the freckle-faced hope twinkling in her apple green eyes, looking illuminated under the late afternoon sun. He’s never been to a poetry slam before – certainly not with a pretty girl like Janice. He’d never been on a date with a girl at all before, actually. His Russia-born mother had homeschooled him his whole life, from the moment he was born to the moment she died. Nervousness sets in when he remembers this. He’s pretty sure his mother wouldn’t like this, if she knew about it.

“You will be in it?” 

Her cheeks flame up and she laughs, uneasily. “No, no. I just like to listen. Do you like poetry?”

Dimitri’s pretty sure he doesn’t like poetry.

“If you – you don’t have to come, if it isn’t your thing.” 

“No, I. I have not been to one of these things.” He tries to smile, but it’s awkward. “When is it?”

“This Saturday, at five.” A car horn honks in the distance, and she stops to look back at it. Some girls wave at her from the window of a CRV, yelling nonsense. She turns back to him hopefully. “Let me know if you can come, okay?”

Dimitri nods, folding up the flier. “Okay.”

She smiles, bright and pearly. “Au revoir, Dimitri.”

He holds the paper in his hand like it was a time bomb as her skirt swishes away across the sunny court yard, and wonders briefly about the poetry selection at the library as he walks into the parking lot. He’s five steps toward the bus stop before a familiar Maserati growls into the bus lane, cutting past a soccer mom’s minivan that honks righteously.

Sammy buzzes the window down to reveal his indifferent Armani sunglasses.

“Get in.” 

Dimitri glances up at the angry minivan and the startled highschoolers sitting on the bus stop bench nervously before slipping into the cool passenger seat hurriedly. Sammy’s zooming out of the lane and through the red light before the blond’s even got his seatbelt on. 

“I thought you had work?” He clutches at the hand bar, timidly.

“Got off early today. Figured I’d swing by and give you a ride, spare you a trip on the town puke-bucket.” 

He hangs a sharp left and Dimitri’s shoulder hits the door with an ‘oof’.

“Thank you,” He says, even though he’s sure neither riding the bus or the Italian’s ridiculous four-wheeled rocket-missile would be necessary if Sammy would just give him back his Benz keys from Mr. Vincetti. As it was, he still lacked the spine to ask for them. 

“Don’t mention it. Here – you want?” 

He pulls out a pack of gum from his jacket pocket, miraculously not disrupting the dicey veering of the wheel as he weaves his Granturismo in and out of traffic. Dimitri eyes them.

“No – thanks.” 

“Suit yourself.” He pops one tab into his mouth and slips the pack back into his jacket. The smell of spearmint tickles the tiny space between them. Sammy flips on the satellite radio and ambient electric music appears from the speakers, the lack of vocals making it feel impersonal and distant; as if someone was talking to him in sign language. He looks at the Italian and finds it more fitting than not. 

“What’s that in your hand?”

The blond glances down at the flier he still clutches. “Oh – I –”

“Let me see.” He whips it away, flattening it against the steering wheel as he drives down a long empty lane. Dimitri can’t see his expression from behind his wide sunglasses, but his steady gum chewing doesn’t cease, seemingly unperturbed. 

“Poetry Slam?” He reads. “What is that, some kind of emo open mic thing?” 

“I-I don’t know, I have never gone. Janice invited me.” 

“Janice?” He tosses the flier back in his lap. “Who’s Janice?”

“A girl.” It sounds strange for Dimitri to say, new. “She wants me to come with her.”

“A girl?” Sammy chuckles, dryly. “A girl asked you out? To a Poetry Slam?”

“Da.” Dimitri nods, although he realizes Sammy’s eyes are nailed to the road. 

“Like a date?”

The blond shifts uneasily. “I do not know about that. She said nothing about date.”

“You know that’s what she wants though, right?” Sammy wears a sleazy grin. Dimitri doesn’t know how to reply that really, and he doesn’t know how to read Sammy’s face. There’s something about it that makes him unsure, like the Maserati was actually a minefield. And perhaps the flier was the detonator.

“I. I do not know what she wants.” He flushes and looks away. Sammy catches the look out of the corner of his tinted gaze. 

“Yeah?” He decides to keep going, rather than letting the topic rest. “What’s she like? She cute?”

Dimitri shrugs. “She’s . . . French?” 

“French.” Sammy huffs a soft laugh. “S’hot, I guess.”

The Russian doesn’t know what to do about how casual he sounds, so passive. He takes a last look at the flier before stuffing it into his backpack, uncomfortably.

When they pull up to the estate and he steps to get out of the car, he finds the engine still humming loudly. 

“You are not coming?” He looks at Sammy in the shape of a question.

“Got a meeting at five. I’ll see you after supper.” The Italian hardly looks at him before switching the gear back into drive, the sharp jutting sound not-so-subtle code for get out. Dimitri hesitates – shouldn’t he say goodbye? – and then closes the door behind him. 

The Maserati whips out of the driveway, and Dimitri doesn’t see Sammy again that night. 

Two days later.

“No no no che cazzo, cosa stai facendo? Rimetterlo, ora. Ora!”

The worker makes an uncoordinated turn with his forklift and moves the load back onto the high shelf he took it down from. Sammy watches him with an exasperated brow from the open gate of the warehouse where men filter in and out of like an anthill. 

“Idiots.” He hisses, looking back at his clip board. He doesn’t know how they’re going to get the warehouse filled on time at this rate. If there’s any shipments left out on the street his dad will be pissed, and he’ll never be boosted out of this gig. He wipes at the sweat at his hairline and starts moving towards the office again to recalculate. 

“I see those Italian lessons actually paid off, ah?” 

Sammy hits the brakes when he sees his father, smiling sunnily by his parked coupe. 

“Dad.” He swallows. “I thought you were meeting with Romero today.” 

“Eh,” The don swaggers forward. “Figured I’d give the South side a rain check. It’s not like they can say no anyways, am I right?” 

He laughs and claps a hand to his son’s shoulder. “How’s my warehouse going?”

Sammy holds the clip board behind his back. “It’s – going.”

“Yeah? Let’s take a look, ah?” He starts walking back into it, arm draped over his son’s shoulder. “Lots ah busy bees in here, ah? You know when I first started this biz with your grandfather, I was stuck on street duty – none ah this counting and measuring stuff you boys do, all clean and easy. I had to be ah muscle, capische? Me and my boys ruled the North side; a group ah babbos turned borgata, yeah? That’s how your Uncle Milo became your Uncle Milo. He was ah my right hand back in the day.” 

“Yeah dad. I know.” Sammy bites down a groan, having heard the story his whole life. 

“One day, mio figlio? When you are preparing to take ah the throne?” He gives his son’s shoulder a squeeze. “You will do a bit ah your own muscle, yeah?”  
The nineteen year old looks into his father’s brown eyes and frowns, sharply. 

“Preparing?” He echoes. “I thought I was already preparing.”

The don laughs. “What, oh this?” He gestures wide to the bustling warehouse. “No no no, my son. This is ah, what we say. Prerequisite, to di course. You know what I’m saying?”

Sammy just stares. His dad sighs, and leans in as if Sammy were a confused child.

“Ascoltare, mio figlio. You are, an apprentice. Yes? And apprentices take years to learn, do they not? They must listen to teacher, for ah very long time before they can step up. Capisce? You must learn from the master.” 

Sammy does not capisce. He’s about to tell his father this before the don starts frowning himself, thoughtfully.

“No, that’s not quite right is it? You have not begun to learn from the master yet, you are still, ah. Being shaped, yes? You are a young cugine, yet to be made into La Cosa Nostra. Right now, the work you do is just to get your feet warm, dip your ah toes a little. You understand?”

“What – no, I don’t understand.” Sammy pulls away from the don’s arm. “La Cosa Nostra? What are you trying to say, that I’m not part of our family yet? That I haven’t gotten my badge yet or something?”

His father’s brow knits in consideration. “Is, ah . . . trial phase, yes?”

And just like that, Sammy is boiling. 

“A trial phase?” A muscle in his neck tenses, angrily. “Who the hell is supposed to take over this operation when you’re done if not me, huh? Bambini? That guy can barely start his car most days.”

“Bambini’s not my capo, Milo is.” His father replies smoothly.

“Whatever, Al Pacino.” He barks, fuming. “How long do you expect me to slave away in this stink-house without any credit, huh? I’m not here to do your chores, dad, I’m here to work.”

The don’s quiet for a long moment. 

“I think,” He starts, eventually. “You just need a little more time to learn. That’s all.”

Sammy gapes a him, speechless. His father’s hand meets his shoulder again with another tight squeeze, meant to be soothing but only burning Sammy up further.

“Make sure to come home for dinner tonight. All this staying out late upsets your mother, you know that.” The don slips on his shades. “Keep up the hard work, ah?”

After his father’s coupe disappears from the warehouse lot, Sammy breaks his clipboard against the wall. 

He’s not fuming when he walks into the house that night, but the anger is still burning there quietly like a sleeping dragon. He was hoping it would wither as the night went on and he had some of his mother’s happy-making food, but when he steps into the dining room he finds himself face first in the most offensive family portrait imaginable. 

His father, mother, and Dimitri are all sitting down with platefuls of tortellini, and right beside the Russian is a coy, freckle-faced girl looking like she’s just stepped out of Madeline; her delicate posture and timid sensibilities reeking of virginity. She’s definitely not his type.

“Who’s this?”

His mother twists to look at him, a smile breaking out on her face when she does.

“Oh hi honey, where have you been? You almost missed it. Your brother brought home a friend from school today, she’s joining us for dinner. Sammy, this is Janice. Do you remember Sammy from prep school, Janice? He used to go to that same school of yours, when he was your age.” 

The girl brings her hand up from under the table to wave at him, shyly. 

“Hi, Sammy.” Her voice is quiet, eyes twinkling green. Dimitri doesn’t say anything, instead opting to stare up at the older boy with unsurely. Sammy doesn’t reply. 

“You wanna pull up a chair honey? There’s some leftovers in the pot.” His mom says.

He stares at Janice, hard. “Not hungry.” 

With that, he takes off up the stairs. 

An hour later and he can hear the front door closing downstairs, his mother’s obnoxious farewells coming to a halt as she adjourns to her bedroom with Mr. Vincetti for the night. Peering down from his bedroom window, he sees Dimitri walking Janice out to her car, looking awkward with his hands in his pockets. She has her own clasped together like a nun, too shy to make a move and too hesitant to leave without doing so. In the end she settles for wrapping her arms around Dimitri’s neck in a hug, stepping on her tippy toes in the process. The Russian’s hands fall on her shoulders conservatively in the meantime. It doesn’t last long, but it’s enough to make Sammy see red. 

He’s in the kitchen pouring himself a glass of water when Dimitri steps back inside. When he sees Sammy’s quiet frame against the counter, he stops and eyes him. 

“You’re still awake.” He says from the doorway. Sammy doesn’t look up.

“Thirsty.” The Italian replies. He’s sure Janice would empathize. 

“Oh,” Dimitri fidgets awkwardly. “I see.”

Sammy turns off the faucet and leans back, taking long cool swallows from the cup. Dimitri feels as if it were an hour glass, counting down the seconds until the elder disappeared again. He hadn’t seen Sammy in days, ever since he picked the Russian up in his Maserati. 

“How was work?” He tries. 

Sammy shrugs. “It was work.” He finally looks over at the blond. “How’s your friend?”

Dimitri swallows. “Good. Good, she – she liked the house, was very impressed.”

“They usually are.” He breathes out laugh. He didn’t usually bring girls over to the estate – it was much easier to just crash at their place, that way he didn’t have to call anyone a cab in the morning – but Sammy had a handful of girlfriends during his highschool years that got the grand tour of the place. And really, if that didn’t impress the pants right off of them, Sammy’s own charm managed it just fine. 

Dimitri shifts quietly. “It is impressive.”

Sammy gives him a stare. The blond must have more in common with that French girl than he thought, to be impressed by his house for longer than two seconds. It’s not that Sammy wasn’t – he was well aware he had a bomb house. But even as a kid he knew that something stood out between him and the people who stared at his home as if it were a palace. Call him classist, but those kinds of people, like pretty-girl Janice and anyone else outside the family, would never see the world like he did. It was would always feel much, much smaller to them. 

Yet here Dimitri stood in his kitchen, feeling rather too large in his big world. 

“So what, did she run out of baguettes and cheese or something tonight?” 

The blond looks confused, and then realizes Sammy’s asking about dinner.

“She wanted to spend time with me before the Slam, I suppose. I invite her to dinner, thought is okay.” He shrugs, and then adds clumsily: “She liked your – our, parents.”

Sammy watches him with an eye-twinkle, lips half-curving in a wry, dead smile. Dimitri’s spine tingles icily.

“They’re supposed to meet the parents after the first date, not before.” He sets his glass down on the counter, a solid thud on the marble. “I guess you guys are just skipping that whole stage, huh? Forget the engagement, just skip to the honeymoon. Am I right?”

The Russian swallows and gazes at the floor. “I don’t know what you mean.” 

“Cut the bullshit, you know she likes you. She’s on you like a tick on a dog. It’s pathetic.”

He looks visibly threatened by the fact, as if he’d just been told he had an ulcer.

“That’s why she wants to ‘spend time’ with you, genius.” Sammy sneers, sauntering towards him. “She wants to hold hands with you and cuddle over Hemingway and Byron and whoever the fuck else that’s had their diary published. She thinks you’re cute. She’d probably even say hot, if it didn’t make the promise ring on her hand melt off.”

The blond flushes viciously. Sammy’s arm comes up to rest on the wall beside him, slowly cornering his uneasy frame. 

“What did you expect, her to compare French notes with you?” 

“I thought is not problem.” Dimitri refuses to look at him. 

“Oh it’s not a problem.” He shrugs, and after a moment adds. “Is it, Dee?” 

Sammy swoops down to look into his eyes, dark and intent. Dimitri keeps his gaze on the floor. 

“You like her, Dee?” His voice is a breath caught in blond hair. “You think she’s pretty, with her schoolgirl looks and big, innocent eyes? Too scared to even hug you?”

“Sammy,” The blond pleads, quietly. 

“You want her, Dee?” He ignores him, his lip twitching like the words were poisonous. “You wanna fuck her?” 

Dimitri lurches away from the Italian, feet moving promptly for the staircase. Sammy stops him with a hand on the flat of his chest, pressing him back against the wall with a hot, spiteful laugh. 

“Yeah you do, don’t you Sputnik? You wanna fuck that tight little virgin pussy, huh? Fuck it like a man, ah?” He holds Dimitri there easily, smile dirty. “It’d be your first time being the man in bed, wouldn’t it?”

The Russian steps for the stairs again – only to be shoved back against the wall instead.

“Is that why you want her so bad, so you can feel like a man Dee?” 

“Let me go.” Dimitri’s eyes shoot up at him in wet glare. He looks just as vicious as a hurt animal, trapped by hunters. Sammy’s hand doesn’t move.

“You aren’t a man in bed, are you Red?” He laughs, leaning in close. “Nah. You’re kinda girly, aren’t you? You like taking it like a good girl, like being a needy little slut. I mean – it must be pretty hard to keep up all that Marksimov manliness when you’re getting fucked in the ass like a needy housewife. Right, Dee?” 

_“Khvatit!”_

A shock of strength shoves Sammy back on his heels, reeling. He stares at the blond with surprise and anger, flaring through him like a lightning bolt, but cools when he catches sight of Dimitri’s wet face, tears streaking it. The Russian’s chest heaves, before turning to glare at the floor once more. 

“You hide from me, for days. Over girl – one girl.” He sniffs, disgustedly. “I did not think it would be problem to have someone to talk to while you were gone.”

Sammy snarls. “You have friends to talk to, not a jailbait chick with a crush on you. What the fuck else did you ‘not think would be problem’ to do while I’m gone, huh?”

“What does it matter to you? You don’t care about what I do before.” Dimitri’s malignant eyes meet his without warning. The Italian feels another red hot wave roll through him, spurring him closer to the blond. Dimitri doesn’t back down. He lets their noses hover inches apart, while Sammy’s gaze bores down on him like a thunderstorm.

“You don’t know a thing, about what I care about, Cossak.” He says, dangerously quiet. “You haven’t even lived here longer than two months. You think that gives you membership to do whatever the fuck you want? Bring girls around for the grand Vincetti tour? You don’t know jack shit.”

“I know you are scared. Of a girl.” Dimitri returns, and another tear falls. Sammy laughs.

“Where do you get off thinking the girl is the problem, Mudak? She’s not the one inviting herself to dinner. She’s not forcing you to go to that Poetry Slam either, but you’re still thinking about going, aren’t you?”

“I am going.” The blond challenges, hotly. “Not thinking. Not anymore.”

Sammy’s laugh curls into a nasty twist of his lips. He slams a hand against the wall space next to Dimitri’s head, boxing him in with his arms. 

“I fucked you, Red. Twice.” His nostrils flare, livid. “And this is how you repay me? Slutting off with a church girl, like it was nothing?”

“You act like it was nothing already until girl come.” Dimitri snarls.

Act? Was he not there when Sammy picked him up from school – willingly? The Italian was furious. 

“You belong to me Red, whether you know it yet or not.” He seethes. “You go out with that girl tomorrow, and you’ll regret it.” 

Dimitri stares up at him without a trace of fear; just cold malice.

“Goodnight, Sammy.” 

The Russian then leaves to his room for the night. When he hears Sammy’s Maserati tearing out of the driveway moments later, he doesn’t bother to look out the window. He instead thinks about what he’ll wear to the Poetry Slam – he’d forgotten if it was casual or formal. 

When Sammy staggers through the front door the next afternoon, bleary-eyed and hung over, the first thing he hears are his parents’ voices bickering from the living room. When he walks in he finds his father there with three suitcases around him, yelling up the stairs at his wife.

“For God’s sake Lyn, it’s ah weekend, not ah vacation. How many bags do you need?” 

“It’s Atlantic City, Piero, you know what happens to people’s luggage there. I just don’t wanna wake up on Sunday and realize I have to wear my Saturday clothes on the trip back.” 

There’s a third footstep accompanying her own as she turtles down, and when she finally finishes dragging her last suitcase into the living room she looks up and spots Sammy there with a bright gleam to her eyes.

“Sammy baby! There you are. I was scared we’d leave before getting to say goodbye.”

“Another weekend hitting the slots, I take it?” He asks. His voice is gruff, dry-mouthed. The don turns around as if just noticing his son in the doorway, and instantly grimaces.

“Oh, Madonna. Sammy what happened to you?” 

Sammy rubs a hand through his tangled hair, able to practically his parents’ judgmental eyes crawling all over his rumpled shirt and stained pants. It was easy enough to say that he did remember all the drinks he’d had last night with Vinnie and Lorenzo, but the throbbing of his head made him want to forget. 

“You look like road kill, hon.” His mother sympathizes. “Did you just wake up before you got here? It’s almost one, sweetheart.”

“At least he woke up at all, right?” His father sniffs. Sammy heaves a breath. 

“Really Sammy, you can’t make a routine out of this. Your liver’s gonna be shot by the time you hit twenty-five. You’ll end up just like your Uncle Nickie. He can’t even take Tylenol now.” She scoots her bag beside the others with a red, fatigued face as she talks, endlessly. “Anyways, your father and I are gonna be in the city for the weekend, so you and your brother are gonna be in charge of the house while we’re gone, alright? Now you know the rules: no drinks, no crazy house parties, no smoking indoors – oh Dee! I didn’t see you there.”

Sammy turns to where his mother stares at the kitchen archway and finds Dimitri hiding soundlessly within it, watching the Vincetti’s with a cup of orange juice in his thin fingers. 

“You ready for your big date tonight, kiddo?” His mother beams proudly at moves over to ruffle the blond’s hair. “What time’s your friend picking you up?”

“Seven.” Dimitri replies, glancing over at Sammy. “It starts at seven.”

“Ah, your first date. A boy becomes a man, eh? What a lucky girl.” The don winks. The fire from last night returns all along Sammy’s spine like an oil spill. Janice. 

“Scusi.” He grunts, and disappears up the stairs to his bedroom. Dimitri watches him go with a conflicted look on his face, while his mother and father exchange looks. 

A moment later, while Sammy’s sat at his desk cracking open a bottle of aspirin, his bedroom door creaks open. He doesn’t look to see who it is, instead focusing on shoving two tablets down his throat with or without water. Footsteps approach his desk slowly, and he can smell his father’s cologne before they even reach him. 

“You want to prove yourself in this biz, mio figlio,” A paper slides across the wood, appearing right under Sammy’s nose. “Then you start now.” 

There are three establishment names scrawled on the paper: Paolo’s Salon, Penny Mart, and Twin Pines Resort. 

“What’s this?” He frowns at it. 

“That, is what’s left over from Fifth Street. You get you and your boys to do this job right, give these folks a little persuasion, and the Vincetti turf will have expanded just a little bit further West come Monday. Capisce?” 

Sammy stills. Persuasion. Excitement dances in his chest, fingers gripping the paper perhaps too tight. This was his chance to move up the ladder, to get out of that smelly warehouse and do some real work for once. This was his first step closer to being don. 

“Done.” A grin tugs at his lips, and he looks up at his dad. The don just smiles, clasping a hand to his son’s shoulder warmly. 

Sammy knew exactly who he was going to persuade tonight, and one of them wasn’t on the list. 

“Please please, I’ll give you the cash – just leave the Monet. It’s priceless!” 

Sammy holds a hand up, promptly stopping Vinnie’s Louisville Slugger at a mid-air six inches from the portrait of Three Trees in Grey Weather that Lorenzo had raised high in his two gloved hands. He smiles at the frazzled hotel owner, who cowers behind the lobby desk in utmost fright.

“I don’t know Chief. Personally, I don’t think it’s his best work.” The tip of his blade twirls between his leathered fingers, contemplatively. “Let’s say we bump it up a zero, yeah?”

The owner – a Mr. Francis Germ, who also played concierge to the legendary hotel establishment – widened his eyes in a tear of shock and hate. 

“Your father said five hundred a week, no more.” 

“Do I look like my father, Franny?” Sammy leaned in, threateningly. “I know our incredibly good looks can be confusing for the faint of heart – such as yourself – but let’s be real here for a minute. Your hotel is probably the biggest money maker on the west side; five G’s is no skin off your nose. In fact, you probably pay that much every other week anyways with your frequent trips to the Bunny Bin, isn’t that right Mr. Germ?” 

Mr. Francis goes beet red in his sour-nosed face, beady eyes frozen. 

“Expensive hobby, isn’t it?” Sammy makes an icky face. “Especially when you’re hiding it from Mrs. Germ – and Mrs. Germ Jr. What was her name again, Lisa?” 

“Lina.” He scowls.

“Of course.” The Italian smiles. “Look, Francis. We’re giving you a good deal here. The Berducci’s, the Marksimov’s, the Higgin’s? They’d be pressing you for fifty a month, at least. Us here?” He gestures at his five-man muscle crew with his knife. “We can protect you from all that. That fee is nothing in comparison to the safety of this establishment. Am I right?” Germ looks unconvinced. Sammy leans in close and whispers the rest.

“Not to mention the safety of your marriage, aye papi? Or else, little Lina might be growing up in a broken home.” 

“You have no proof. They wouldn’t believe a ginzo thug even if you paid them.” Germ snarls.

“Ah, yeah I guess so.” The young man looks defeated as he slides out a lean white envelope and sends it across the desk. “Except no, not at all actually.”

He looks skeptical at first, before tearing into the paper with jerky, indignant movements. His eyes widen. It’s his latest receipt from the Bunny Bin, complete with a plush kiss-shaped lipstick stain beside the fat number amount at the bottom. 

“How did you get this?” His voice shakes.

“Genie. She’s your favorite, right? She was glad to make us a few copies. Vinnie even got her number, too. They’re going out for spaghetti on Sunday.” 

One of his henchmen – Vinnie – grins happily. Germ looks up and shoots Sammy a bone-chilling glare. The Italian takes it in stride.

“So, you guys are still on Marjorie Road right?” 

Lorenzo lets out a soaring ‘whoop’ when they roll out of the Twin Pines parking lot seconds later, leaving a defeated Germ to stew in his vandalized lobby miserably. 

“Your dad’s gonna flip when he finds out the score you racked up today!” He hoots from the passenger seat of Sammy’s Maserati. “We’ll get taken care of baby, for sure. Let’s go take this payday to Underground, yah?”

“Not yet Lenny.” Sammy glances at the clock, reading 7:25 on it. “We’ve got one more stop.”

Dimitri sat quietly next to Janice at the River Lane Open Mic Café, which had an awfully (un)surprising turn out for the Poetry Slam than he’d imagined. He looks over at the sparse four or five couples spread thinly in the seats of the small coffee house, and then at the loud, overwhelming speaker taking the mic at the current moment.

“Her eyes were sheaths, onto which a gaze so blue pierced my soul,” The acne-faced helmet-head hipster belted with passion, all while staring down into the little black notebook in his hand carefully. “And every day, as my blood puttered forth, I watched it change into you. From red, to blue.”

He’s startled when a soft hand fell over his, and looks down to find that it’s Janice’s.

“You okay?” She whispers, smile dancing on her lips. He nods quickly.

“Da – yes, I’m just.” He pauses, staring down at their hands. “I’m just wondering what my brother is up to, is all.” 

Her brow quirks at that, in curiosity, but she says nothing of it. Instead, she slips her fingers between his and links them. Heat floods his cheeks. She just smiles. 

Then the coffee house door kicks open with a _clack!_

The couple’s hands fly apart in an instant and the hipster at the mic shuts up mid-unto to stop and stare as Sammy and his crew saunters through the doorway. Sammy has Vinnie’s slugger in his hand this time as he heads the group, appearing as nonchalant as a morning coffee-goer.

“I beg your pardon, fellow poetry enthusiasts,” He starts. “But on behalf of the Vincetti Family, River Lane is, unfortunately, closing early tonight.”

Dimitri visibly blanches at the sight in front of him, while the skinny audience in the back – as well as some employees – promptly begin moving for the exit at the first sound of the Vincetti name. Janice looks over at the Russian nervously. 

“What is happening?” She whispers, while the café empties.

“Beat it, Garfunkel.” Sammy dismisses the hipster-poet as he walks up to the coffee counter and the teenager tails it out of there, nearly tripping on the way out. The barista’s trembling hands fly into the air as Sammy draws close. 

“Jenny, call the police.” She blurts to the one server left behind the bar. He grins.

“You must be new around here. Let me introduce myself: I’m Sammy Vincetti, son of Don Piero Vincetti, and my daddy owns the police.” 

The server picks up the phone anyways. Sammy holds up a hand when one of his men goes to stop her, letting her dial away. The barista stares at him in trepidation. 

“What do you want?” 

“You. We want you, Miss” – he stops to squint at her name tag – “Virginia Woolf?” 

“It’s Poetry Night; we had to pick poet aliases.” She explains shakily.

“Yeah but she’s not much of a poet, is she? I mean, she wrote mostly novels, right?”

“I don’t know I’m new here!” The barista babbles. 

“Yes – 911? This is River Lake, I think – I think we’re being robbed?” Her friend’s voice comes from the kitchen.

“Watch her.” Sammy grunts to one of his men, and the henchman dutifully hounds after the girl on the phone. She yelps when she spots him staring at her from the bar. 

“I think we should go, Dimitri.” Janice tells him.

“Yes, I think you should.” The Russian nods, hypnotized by the scene in front of him. Janice’s gaze jerks over to him in a hybrid of confusion and hurt at the suggestion.

“As I was saying, Virginia,” Sammy continues at the counter. “We want you, to become part of our club. The Vincetti club, of course. Y’see my boys and I have gotten quite a few members tonight – a hotel, a fancy salon, a classist grocery selling ridiculously expensive produce – but what we really need here is culture. You know what I mean?”

“No no no, it’s Vincetti. His name is Vincetti.” Jenny explains in the back.

“Some place with fire, with passion. The kind that only a boring, commercial coffee shop chain catering to the ultra-liberal youth of boho-chic eggheads and hipster-yuppies can bring; with your poetry slams and your . . .” He looks around at the bulletin board menu. “Edgar Allan Polka Night? Am I reading that right?” 

“I’m new here, I’m new here, I’m new here.” The barista chants, eyes closing pitifully. Her hands remain high in the air, shaking.

“They hung up on me!” Jenny comes out from the kitchen with a panicked face, phone dangling in her hand with a dial tone. The barista doesn’t stop chanting. Janice, moving like a church mouse, starts creeping for the door.

“Ah ah ah now, missy.” Sammy catches her, and Vinnie looms in front of the exit feet away from her. “You got a curfew or something? You’ve only been here what, twenty minutes?”

“I-I want to go home.” Janice wobbles. Sammy looks hurt.

“But – I thought you wanted to spend time with Dimitri. Don’t you?”

Janice looks over at the Russian pleadingly. He looks conflicted, torn between the two.

Sammy’s grin returns, fighting its way onto his face. “Have a seat, Janice.” 

Vinnie gives her a cold stare when she hesitates, and her butt hits the seat quick as lightning. 

“Now I’m gonna give you a discount membership, since you guys were more of a spontaneous decision than we planned.” The Italian looks back at the barista once more. “My comfort zone is usually around five, but let’s be real here for a minute. You guys probably don’t make that much in a month, and if you did half of that would go right back into business expenses –”

“Five hundred?” Virginia Woolf asks.

“Thousand, sweetheart. Does this suit not look like it’s made of Benjamin’s to you? Cuz, it probably is.” 

“I don’t have five thousand dollars. I don’t – I don’t even own this place, I’m just the assistant manager. I transferred here.” She rolls right over his words, a nervous wreck.

“Those aren’t negotiating words, Virginia.” Sammy shakes his head. “You see if I’m not mistaken, there should be a safe in your boss’s office back there. Am I mistaken?”

Virginia’s face falls. “No, but – there are only paychecks in there.”

“Trust me, kid. We’re not here to steal your rent money.” He slides another envelope out of his jacket. It was one of the leftover Declaration of Extortion letters he had from today. He’d printed out a few of them before leaving home; formal letters explaining the terms and conditions of being properly extorted by a Vincetti – and he’d intended on using them with each of the new Vincetti “club members”. But by the time he’d closed the deal with Mr. Germ, he’d realized that words were much more efficient than print in this vocation, and despite how elegant it at first seemed, Sammy had decided to his own oral skills instead of his reading ones.

“We just want you,” He slides the letter over to her. “to put that in your boss’s safe. You know the pass code, yeah?”

Assistant managers should, he knows. But she gives him a shaky, resistant look. 

“I can’t – I can’t do that. You can’t do that, you can’t just – just bully us like this!”

Dimitri’s eyes widen, and he watches Sammy’s next move intently. The Italian gives her an amiable smile, before turning and smashing his bat into the pastry glass without warning. Both the employees jump, one shrieking in fright. 

“Put the letter in the safe, Virginia.” He instructs again with dark, razor-sharp eyes. “And don’t ever tell me what I can and can’t do.”

She nods furiously, breaths heaving. Sammy smiles. 

“I can’t believe you,” Dimitri hisses at him when the Italian is dragging him to his Maserati, elbow fisted in his bronze paw. “You terrify Janice! She will have therapy for this!”

“She’d probably need therapy without it. All that repressed sexuality can’t be good for a girl’s mind.” Sammy replies, clicking the doors unlocked as they approached.

The blond stomps a foot to the asphalt, stopping himself to glare at the elder. Sammy’s eyes are cloudy black at him, grip on his elbow unyielding. 

“Get in the car.” 

Dimitri pauses, and then with a snarl twitching onto his lips, dips himself into the passenger seat. 

The drive back home is over quicker than they know, despite how tight the tension is between them the whole way. The air around them feels so volatile that if a match were held up to it, it’d probably light on fire. When Dimitri steps out of the Maserati once it’s parked in the driveway, Sammy is right there to grasp at his elbow. He ignores the blond’s struggles as he tows him up to the front door, stopping to fish out his keys. His eyes are dark with focus.

“Let me go.” Dimitri bites. 

“What’re you gonna do, find another schoolgirl to play with?” The door slips open with a clack, and then Sammy’s dragging him through it, the foyer, and then into the living room. Dimitri finally yanks his arm free there, and whirls around to seethe at the Italian in hate. 

“You’re crazy.” He spits. “You and your family. You’re insane.”

“Yeah that’s great, coming from an Marksimov.” Sammy scoffs.

“Marksimov’s don’t break pastry windows over girl, ebanashka.” 

The Italian’s nostrils flare at that. Dimitri watches as he whips off his suit jacket, the top two buttons of his dress shirt showing a glint of sweat across his chest. 

“You think this is about the girl still?” 

Dimitri crosses his arms. “Girl was not problem till you say so.”

“And yet there you were, holding her hand at River Lane.” 

“You don’t own me, zadnitsa.” Dimitri snaps. “You and your family can own half of state, but you can’t own me. I am not object.”

“What part of ‘belong’ don’t you understand, Cossak?” Sammy steps closer to him, threateningly. “Is it the core concept? Because last I checked, it seemed like you just walked into my room the night we fucked without reading the rulebook.” 

“I don’t have to live by anyone else’s rulebook.” The blond hisses up at him. “You did not care about that before, what makes it so different now?” 

Sammy’s voice drops dangerously low. “We fucked, Red. That’s what’s different.” 

“Because you fuck me?” Dimitri steps toward him. Their chests are inches apart. “Because you claim me, now? What were we doing before – just playing?”

“I’m taking care of you, now.” He says, and the words are of a don, not his son. “There’s a difference.”

“By smashing pastry windows? Robbing café shops?” Dimitri stares. “You are mad.”

A hot breath leaves the Italian’s nostrils, slow and furious.

“What does it take for you to learn?” He grits. “What does it take for you to understand that you’re mine, and nobody else’s?”

“I am not your toy. I can belong to whoever I want.” 

“No you’re just needy, aren’t you?” Sammy smiles, dryly. “You just need attention. You can’t stand it when someone isn’t making a scene over you, noticing you. Mama and Papa just didn’t give you the time of day when they were alive, huh? It shows.” 

Hurt flickers across the orphan’s features. His eyelashes flutter, and suddenly they’re wet.

“I am not the spoiled, silver-spoon brat, with manhood so small that he is threatened by harmless little girl.” 

That makes Sammy see red. In an instant, he’s got the Russian’s wrist clenched in his fist and he’s pulling him up the stairs. Dimitri tries to yank it away in vain.

“What you do now, lock me in cage? Put on collar?”

“Not quite.” Sammy drags him into his bedroom and tosses him onto the bed. His body falls on the soft sheets with a plop, and Dimitri almost laughs when the Italian slides off his belt.

“This how you prove your manliness?” The Russian tilts his head. “You going to punish me with that, Sammy?”

“Just like daddy never did to you, Dee?” Sammy moves around the bed with the leather clasped in his hands. “I bet he just walked right on by whenever you acted up. Nothing could get his attention, could it?”

Dimitri hisses at him when he swipes up both of the blond’s wrists, pinning them to the knob on the bed post above his head with the casual strength of one hand. 

“What are you doing?” He struggles as Sammy’ loops his belt around his wrists, the back of his hands pressing tight against the post when the Italian tightens the leather, buckling it securely. 

“Teaching you. Call it a hands-off lesson.” Sammy stands up straight, looking down at the Russian coldly. “And since mom and dad are outta town for the weekend, it might be a longer class period than you think.”

Dimitri yanks on his bonds, the headboard juttering against the wall at his sheer force. The belt holds in place, only sparse wiggle room for his hands. Sammy won’t lie – this isn’t the first time he’s belt-looped someone to his bed. But he will admit it was the first that the someone was male, and his adopted brother. 

“You can’t keep me here. I am a human being, not your – your pet, you selfish prince!”

“One apology, Red. One apology for making an idiot out of me with that girl, and you can go free.” Sammy crosses his arms, relaxed now that he had the situation under his control.

“Vy nevynosimy!” Dimitri spits. “It was one girl! I was not even going with her tonight, till you gave me cold shoulder. Take one look at flier and boom! Drop me, like rag in bucket.”

“Oh yeah? And what about ‘belong’, huh?” Sammy says in a mocking imitation of Dimitri’s boyish voice. “What about ‘oh, I want you Sammy’? ‘Moy hozyian, Sammy’? What happened to all that once Miss Pretty Eyes appeared, huh?”

Dimitri flushes a deep red and glowers. 

“Poshel ty. Swine.”

Liquid fire growls in Sammy. After a moment, the Italian turns and starts walking toward the doorway, without a sound. Dimitri glares at him the whole way, and the look doesn’t drop until his shoes meet the hallway. 

“Sammy, wait. Don’t.” 

The elder pauses. He licks his lips. 

“You can’t leave me here – please,” He amends, after remembering how well things go whenever the Italian is told what or what not to do. “How will I sleep?”

Sammy starts moving again. Dimitri panics. “Sammy please – hozyian!”

He stops again, and his hand slides up the doorway, lingering. The elder’s eyes meet Dimitri’s own, and the blond feels a rush of relief.

“She wasn’t –” He pauses, looking at the sheets. “She was just a friend, Sammy.” 

The Italian really doesn’t see why he couldn’t have just said that in the beginning, but finds himself walking back to the bed just the same. Slow, patient steps.

“I wanted you to see me.” He shifts in his restraints, sheets rustling beneath him. “I wanted you to know I could leave.” 

“But you can’t really, can you?” A smile tugs at Sammy’s lips at the Russian’s belted wrists. Dimitri flushes, and shifts again uncomfortably. 

“Please, Sammy. Razvyazhite menya?” He tilts his wrists up, an offering. 

“Just like that?” Sammy’s knee slides over Dimitri’s waist, his zipper hovering in front of the blond’s face. “Maybe I should give you an Oscar, too.”

Dimitri murmurs the Italian’s name again, and brushes his nose along his inseam. He lets out a moist breath across the crotch, parting his lips over the fabric. 

“M’sorry, hozyian,” He mouths at Sammy’s half-hard cock. “Please – let me.”

“Yeah?” Sammy tangles a hand into the Russian’s hair. “Kind of think you look good like this, don’t you think?”

Dimitri mumbles something as he kisses the growing bulge in his pants, lips spreading plush and pink. When his tongue darts out to wet the fabric, Sammy’s hand clenches in his hair. His fingers twist the blond’s locks upwards and with a wince Dimitri’s eyes meet his, a shock of blue. He stares down at his parted lips, glinting wet inches away from his tented pants.

Sammy’s other hand drifts down and snaps open the top button of Dimitri’s shirt – and then the next, and the next, until he’s seated on the Russian’s lap with both hands yanking open the shirt, exposing the lean chest and dusky nipples there blatantly. Dimitri’s legs shift under Sammy’s body, thighs tensing. He hears his name asked, like a question, before he ducks down and takes a nipple into his mouth. 

Dimitri gasps, chest leaping under the Italian. Sammy steadies him with a hand on his ribs, swirling his tongue around the nub. He can feel the Russian’s legs squirming, unable to spread. He lets his teeth graze the sensitive flesh and a breath hitches in Dimitri’s throat, loud. 

“Sammy?” His nose falls into the Italian’s hair, trying to touch him in any way he can. “Sammy please – untie.”

The elder’s mouth just switches nipples, getting the other just as spit-shined as the last, and his teeth return to treat it with soft almost-bites. The blond’s chest heaves against his chin, the smell of his deodorant faint and warm. Dimitri’s head falls back against the headboard, nose riding along his inner-elbow. 

“Please, please, hozyian,” His legs shift insistently. Sammy can feel how hard he is underneath, trapped. “Untie, please untie. Pozhaluysta.” 

He pulls away with a wet smack and straightens up on his knees again, letting his full bulge drift inches from the Russian’s face. Dimitri latches onto it instantly, kissing at it with heavy pants. His nipples harden at the coldness that comes with the absence of Sammy’s mouth.

“Fuck me Sammy, please,” He begs. The word please spills over and over again between open-mouthed kisses, and he stops to bite at Sammy’s zipper. The Italian lays a hand on his blond head, knotting his fingers tightly. When Dimitri manages to pull the zipper down more than halfway between his teeth, he tugs – hard. The Russian lets out a frustrated yelp. His eyes close tightly, cheek resting against Sammy’s pant leg. 

“Please, Sammy,” He sounds wrecked. “Let me touch you. Let me feel.”

Sammy doesn’t do anything at first. But soon, he’s letting go of Dimitri’s hair and unbuttoning his pants instead. When his cock is finally freed, the Russian moves to latch onto it instantly. Sammy stops him by the hair.

“You ready for that Dee?” Sammy rubs his scalp, contemplatively. “You ready to belong, for real?”

Dimitri nods, panting against the Italian’s undone zipper. “Da. Belong, yours.”

Sammy is quiet for a moment. “No.” His voice comes. “I don’t think you are.”

He lets the Russian’s hair go.

“Prove it to me.” 

Dimitri swallows. The Italian’s eyes are glazed and murky, but when he feels the blond’s lips gingerly envelope him they flutter for a moment. His mouth is warm and wet as they seal around him, tongue running up the underside in a slow drag. 

Sammy curses under his breath as Dimitri starts up a rhythm, his brow knit with concentration and eyes tightly shut. The moist pull of his lips tugging him forward makes his hips sway. He lets his hand fall on Dimitri’s head again and the blond’s eyes beam up at him, wet and blue. 

“Fuck, Dee,” He rocks his hips forward. The Russian squirms, moan humming against Sammy’s skin. He moves his mouth in slow bobs, suckling with quiet urgency. The way his wrists still pull at the belt and his biceps flex around his ears makes the fire in Sammy’s gut burn even more, the wanton draw of his eyebrows; earnest, desperate. He swirls his tongue along the tip and sucks there, breath coming harsh from his nostrils. 

“Please, Sammy.” He kisses his way down the side. “Trakhni menya, I belong. Am yours.”

“You think so?” He runs his fingers through blond hair, tilting Dimitri’s head up. 

“Know so,” The Russian licks his lips. “Need you, hozyian.”

Sammy unfreezes then. He swoops and kisses the blond in hard, swallowing surges, feeling the buzz of Dimitri's moan vibrating in his throat. Dimitri kisses back eagerly, tugging at his restraints. By the time Sammy's mouth has made it back to his tight nipples, the Italian's hands have already got the blond's pants undone and pulled down his thighs. His hard on is jutting up against his grey boxer briefs, a wet spot at its tip. Sammy rolls the pants off from his lower body and kisses his way down to Dimitri's waist band. The Russian's legs spread instantly, knee slipping over the Italian's shoulder so his heel rests on the center of his back, and when Sammy's mouth closes over his clothed cock he lets out a long, breathy moan. 

Sammy sucks at it and lets his tongue press against it, the warm scent clouding his senses. His eyes meet Dimitri's as he mouths, and when the blond sees his hot, predatory face there with something akin to desperation behind it, an oven closes over him. His hips pump up, and surprisingly the Italian doesn't hold them down; just moves with them, mouth pressing hard against the bulge. Then he moves back up to Dimitri's neck.

"Tell me who you want," He asks, his hand squeezing the blond's hard on tighter than needed. Dimitri whimpers. 

"You Sammy, please. I - I," He swallows and doesn't finish, muttering something else in Russian. He thrusts into Sammy's hand and moans his name again.

"You what? You want me?" Sammy looks into the blond's eyes. "Is that all you want Dee?"

"Sammy," Dimitri groans when the Italian's hand dips under his boxers to pull at his cock in slow, tense jacks. "Da, that's - no. Is not all I want." 

Sammy waits, but doesn't stop moving his hand. If Dimitri wasn't so far gone, he'd say the Italian was worried. As if one harmless little French girl could put the haughty Italian's entire self-confidence at stake. 

"I want you, no one else." The blond swallows. "I want you inside me, want you to fuck me, please Sammy. Please."

Sammy slides his boxers off with ease, looking sated with this answer. 

"Oh - Sammy," His head tips back when the Italian finally fucks into him moments later, his first slow thrust quickly followed by a hard surge of his hips that pushes Dimitri's body up a few inches. Dimitri wraps his legs around Sammy's waist, ankles hooking together tightly. He lets out tight sounds, airy as he struggled to take in the elder's deep pumps. 

Sammy buried his nose in Dimitri's neck and listened to the rabbit-heart beat of his brother's pulse, feeling his boyish voice tremble out in overwhelmed warbles that never seemed to end. He loves being Dimitri's first, knowing that he was the one to open the seventeen-year old up for the first time to things like this - things he may have never even thought about before. Who knows how repressed he was in that Marksimov house he was raised in, what kind of Russian sensibilities kept him boxed up inside. Sammy sucks Dimitri's smooth skin between his teeth and bites a mark there, feeling the blond buck up against him and yelp. 

He pounds into him harder, letting a hand drop down and curl under Dimitri's knee so he can hold it up without stopping. The Russian whimpers into Sammy's jaw, surprising him when he presses a kiss there breathlessly. 

"Good, Sammy." He says between kisses, and no matter how many times he says it, the Italian's name still crawls out of his mouth thickly accented. "So good - please, let me touch. Let me touch you." 

"Not this time, Red." Sammy thrusts, harder. "Gotta learn how to keep your hands to yourself." 

Dimitri whines but it's short-lived. Sammy's hand leaves the blond's knee to wrap around his cock instead. A moan soars out of his mouth, thighs tensing around the Italian's midway. He muffles his cries against Sammy's neck, voice vibrating against the skin. 

"Hozyian - Sammy," He sobs when he comes, spilling hot and wet all over both of their stomachs. Sammy's thrust don't pause, keeping up their unforgiving pace with hard-lined determination.It's so easy to make the blond come, it's a wonder he lasts this long. 

Dimitri's body relaxes all around him and he spreads his legs further, head falling back against the headboard. His eyes are hooded, eyebrows knotted so desperately for the elder to come in him. Sammy swallows and moves his hands to Dimitri's hips, pulling them back onto his cock. 

"Pozhaluysta," He murmurs, soft. "Come in me, Sammy."

It all hits him in a rush, and he pushes himself so hard against the Russian his hips come flush against the other's, eyes screwing shut and mouth open in a groan. All of Dimitri's facial features smooth out contently when he feels Sammy come, letting his hips roll back into him even when the Italian's body has gone stiff, pulsing hot inside. Seconds later Sammy is falling beside him, chest heaving and sweat gleaming all along his spine. 

Dimitri tugs at his restraints insistently. "Sammy - Sammy."

One honey-hazel eye peeks open. Dimitri makes a pleading face. Sammy then reaches up and lazily undoes the belt with one hand, and although the Russian is obediently still, as soon as the clasp pops open he's tearing his wrists away and rolling himself on top of Sammy. He swallows the Italian's mouth in a kiss, a wanton noise muffled there. Sammy's lips move languidly against his, no sense of urgency to be found, but he does help slip off Dimitri's remaining button-down and toss it into the darkness of the room. Dimitri's hands fly into Sammy's hair, touching his jaw with an affectionate thumb, and something warm and light unfurls in the Italian's chest at the blond's eargerness, his adoration. 

Dimitri murmurs sleepy Russian into Sammy's chin, trailing his kisses down the elder's neck. They end at Sammy's chest, right in the center where Dimitri's head is soon to be. 

*

Things don't change around the Vincetti estate for a while after that. Dimitri, unsurprisingly, never hears from Janice ever again. The story of what went down at the Poetry Jam gives the Russian a reputation at his school, as well - and needless to say, it's not a very happy one. He roams his school halls without a single student daring to talk to him, or sometimes even look at him. Not that he cares. Dimitri's grades skyrocket after Sammy's stunt at the cafe, and his teachers constantly shower him with praise - something the blond realizes he loves, if not strives for daily.

Meanwhile, after Sammy's first success on the job his father gave him he gets packed with more. Soon enough he's barely spending any time at all in that hellish warehouse anymore. 

"You're a hell of a kid, you know that Sammy? Mio figlio!" His father laughs one week. He's looking over the city map in the Vincetti Family headquarters, the sky high windows illuminating the growing pins of blue that scatter across the West side of New York, and his shoulders are bouncing rhythmically with the ease of his guffaws.

"My boy, taking over da west side with ah panache, yea? Mwa!" He kisses his fingertips as if he were tasting Mario Batalli's marinara sauce. He turns around and faces his son, who leans against the doorway complacently. "Is beautiful! You are ah like ah fish in water, no?"

Sammy ducks his head, smiling calm. "Learn from the best."

"Bahhh," His father waltzes around his desk and up to Sammy. "You were born the best, mio figlio. You are a Vincetti. Me and you?"

He clasps his hands firm around Sammy's leather-jacket shoulders, and looks into his eyes with destiny. 

"We are going to add this state to our collection, no problem." A smile grows on his face. "The Vincetti family is going to own every piece ah the east coast like cattle, and one day soon, my son? Every Marksimov, Berducci, MacMurphy, Higgin and hood rat walking these streets is going to answer to you, bambino."

Sammy's mouth twitches. "Don't you mean us?" 

His father leans back and gives him a long, satisfactory look.

"No, mio figlio. I mean you."

Sammy bursts into the house later that evening when work is finished with a hot grin plastered to his face. He kicks the door shut with a slam and saunters long-leggedly into the bar in the kitchen for the most tempting bottle of Campari he can find in there. He's just finished wedging an orange twist onto his negroni when he swings around and finds Dimitri stepping into the kitchen, sunlight bathing his features as it escapes through the window. He freezes, and Dimitri mirrors his movements when he spots the Italian. His mother isn't around, having gone out for groceries ten minutes ago. A puzzled smile curls onto the Russian's face.

"So soon? Is barely five yet." He looks at Sammy's drink with a cocked brow.

Sammy's face is still at first. Then, he takes a long sip of his drink, and sets it down onto the marble less than delicately. A predatory grin washes his face, flushed from racing up into the house seconds before, and he stalks toward Dimitri. 

"Sammy?" The blond backs away nervously, but soon Sammy is swooping him up in a deep, joyful kiss that has Dimitri letting out a surprised muffled sound against his lips. Sammy doesn't say a word. He just lifts the Russian up onto the counter and continues kissing him, tongue tasting like gin and sweet vermouth as it laps into Dimitri's mouth, making him feel heady. The blond tangles his hands into Sammy's long hair, hooking his ankles behind the Italian's back.

"Is there occasion?" He laughs when Sammy's lips dance down his neck, smacking wetly against his pulse. "Or just happy to see me?"

The Italian's hand reaches up to palm his cheek. His honey eyes fall hooded on Dimitri's happy blues, and he breathes his words against the blond's lips.

"Drink with me tonight." Is how he answers. Dimitri's eyes flare with curiosity.

"I have never drank before."

"I know." Sammy smiles, devious. "Just a little. From my cup. Just to taste."

Dimitri stares at him, eyes narrowed. 

"You trying to have way with me, Vincetti boy?" 

"Not boy. Not for long." Sammy kisses his cheek, then his forehead. "Don Vincetti, Dee. Don Sammy Vincetti."

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading :) there's a sequel on my hard drive containing Dean/Cas, but I haven't posted it yet. Let me know if you'd be interested in reading that. Again, thank you!


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